


Hell Be Comin' Round That Mountain

by moonoverwings



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Birth Control, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Biting, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Mutual Pining, Non-Binary Arthur Morgan, Period-Typical Sexism, Pregnancy Scares, Protective Arthur Morgan, Protective John Marston, Soft cowboys, Tent Sex, Top John Marston, Trans Arthur Morgan, Trans Male Character, idiots fighting, spoilers for chapter 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonoverwings/pseuds/moonoverwings
Summary: There was an inhuman roar and Arthur Morgan launched himself at the younger man. Grabbing onto bony arms, the weight of the thirty-six year old outlaw was no match for John, as he was pulled from his saddle and the two went crashing to the ground. The fight was rough, dirty and ended up not as Arthur or John intended.





	1. Rag

Everyone in Dutch van der Linde's gang knew that if you needed the loudest barking dog, you got Arthur Morgan.

Mean, tough and scary.

Not unlike a charging buffalo when he _really_ got going.

But in truth, it was all an act.

Most of the time.

Much like a tired buffalo that couldn't be arsed to run all the way at you, Sean had joked. Unless that particular buffalo knew you were trouble and a quick shot between the eyes did the trick. (Or knee to the crotch, in Sean's case.)

But folk outside Dutch's gang were not privy to this information so, naturally, Arthur Morgan used his God given height and talents to his advantage. Job after job he'd join to lend the well needed muscle or to simply loom over folk that needed a good looming. When it came to talking, he kept his southern drawl of a mouth shut as much as possible, letting others do all the warbling. Especially when working with his adoptive fathers, Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews.

Aside from those jobs, anyone would say he was usually down to earth as anyone could be for a man of his upbringing. Between jobs or chores around camp, Arthur Morgan was more than likely to be in his tent, sketching in that leather bound journal of his and writing whatever he wrote. He was the only one to do so out of the gang, besides the amateur romantic novelist, Mary Beth. The two creatives would share whatever little stationary they had and, on occasion, Arthur would lend an ear to her poem reading. He'd caught John Marston trying to sketch in his journal a few years back, but a quick bark of a warning made the boy scurry off. Arthur had paused when he saw John had been trying to copy his image of a seagull.

It was also a well known part of the outlaw's personality that if a fight would break out, Arthur would tend to intervene with a cool head, telling those folk to stop all that nonsense.

But there were, however, curious days during the month where this would be thrown to the wind and the blonde outlaw would literally go off on one.

Antagonizing and picking fights, seemingly out of no where, particularly with John. The young man, in retaliation, would only add fuel to the fire and screech insults at the top of his lungs from the other tent.

Those very early days of Marston joining the gang were rough, as the boy had a habit of biting when scared or angry. Even worse was when his jaw would lock and John would freak out, whimpering for help. Arthur had been bitten a couple of times, on the hand or arm, adding insult to injury when John's jaw would lock. Last time it had happened, was during a wrestling match that had gotten out of hand. Arthur realized if he could calm John down, the younger outlaw's grip would slowly but surely relax. The other bites where just that, bites of anger in the heat of the moment. Until a quick slap across the face from Hosea, the last time John had gone for someone, had put to rest _that_ wild habit on the surface. But Arthur never forgot how shocked or beat red young John's face had been at the chastisement.

Now though in his mid thirties, and John in his late twenties, a quick throw away comment about Marston's face and how the wolf scars gave him extra brain cells would leave Arthur's lips and John, for his part, would tell Arthur to go and fuck himself. To which Arthur would shout, quite loudly from across camp, for the man to come and fuck him himself.

That got a giggle out of Mary Beth.

Around about these times of random emotions, Arthur usually could be found drunk if not absent from camp. The early days of his youth had all manner of alarming wild nights out, drinking and fucking his way around questionable saloons in a alcoholic fog. He'd gotten a few raised eyebrows from the establishment's girls before they happily obliged, seeing payment had been slapped down on the table. But it was upon the real high risk of bedding a fellow outlaw in the dim light, behind some backwards saloon, that would really scratch Arthur's itch. A few black eyes from mistakes or bastards that got too rough had dogged him, but he'd get back to camp afterwards and no one would be non the wiser.

He wasn't sure why this bizarre fog of friskiness would descend upon him but, sure as shit, he'd be on the rag right afterwards. Using that urge to screw as a bell, signalling that he needed to stock up on food and take his ass away from camp, Arthur would pack up and head out. Getting laid was always tricky if he was broke or out of luck at the possible options. But more times than non, he'd use his own initiative, lying alone in his tent, for it was cheap and did the trick.

Until one day he rode back into camp and had Miss Grimshaw nearly pull him from his horse, shoving some revolting tea that he had only seen the local prostitutes drinking (for he apparently needed to drink it _right now_ ) down his throat and screaming at him that he was an unbelievable fool. Turned out word had gotten back about his nighttime activities, on this particular occasion, before he did. She had heard what the twenty year old Arthur had been doing, because Bill and Dutch had seen him. Just what the elder men had been doing in that tavern, waiting on some business deal with a rival or something equally shady he guessed, escaped him. But he downed the forced drink and that was that. He ignored the extremely confused look on Bessie's face when he complained that that stuff tasted like horseshit.

Arthur had been expecting an argument with Dutch soon after, but it was Hosea who had taken him aside and firmly explained that Dutch was indeed beyond livid, because the man Arthur had let mount him last night? Had been none other than Colm O'Driscoll, himself.

And _that_ had put an end to it.

And the tea? Arthur had shuddered at the bullet he'd dodged.

The memories of those some fifteen years ago were nothing like these days. Obviously by now he had more or less a sex education, combined with an army of herbs, teas and yarrow that prevented any life from taking hold within him should he rarely go all out on that itch now. But Arthur had kept his promise to Dutch and refrained from whoring and drinking his way into an early grave.

Gambling though, well that was another story.

But sitting by the camp fire, bottle in one hand, singing with Javier and Uncle all manner of songs about woman's neither regions to much snorting and drunken laughter, were as far as it went where drink was concerned. _'Ring-dang-do_ ' was always guaranteed to be played on the banjo when Uncle was around and Arthur would more slur than sing as loud as he could, enough for Miss Grimshaw to throw tin cans at them to shut them the hell up, _it was 3am for pete's sake!_

Arthur Morgan slapped at a mosquito at his neck, checking his hand and brushing the squished remains down his thigh with a grunt. Things could be worse, he mused at his dusty surroundings in the midday sun. He could be on another job like that one with Hosea.

Thirty six years old and sweating like a rightful sinner in church, Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his horse, his tanned outer jacket rustling as he shifted left and right in the saddle. He scratched at his bare chin, fingers brushing over that old scar, and felt his clean shaven skin argue back. The ache in his lower back was ebbing and flowing. Like someone was pressing their thumbs on either side between his hips and spine. It had been over three hours since he'd changed the soiled linen and knew he was literally sitting on borrowed time. He looked over his shoulder, feigning searching for that boil that was Micah Bell, keeping them waiting at this vantage point the bastard, but clocked a couple of thick bushes he could take care of business. Just one thing was stopping him and it looked over it's shoulder at Arthur with a deep scowl on it's scarred face.

"You got lice again"?

"What?"

"You," John Marston shot from atop Old Boy, his raspy voice sounding like he smoked several packs a day to make sure the sun rose, "You're fidgeting like hell."

"Shuttup," Arthur drawled, turning his head away.

John knew, of course. Not through Arthur's own tardiness mind, but through the fact that greasy raccoon just wouldn't leave him alone. Ever since he saved his sorry hide from that hanging, that river, that house robbery, that jail that...ah, too many to count. Then that wolf attack? He was getting sick of saving Marston the Maiden. Arthur noticed that, daily now, the twenty six year old wouldn't be far away from him. Marston had even the gall to pitch his tent literally next to his when they arrived at Horseshoe Overlook.

The dark haired idiot had always been lingering on the outskirts of his person, like a bad smell. How Arthur had kept his body's intimate secret from John had been a fucking miracle, but that all changed two years ago. Barging into Arthur's hotel room to continue some stupid argument they were having about something or other, as the man was changing, and it was as if their worlds turned upside down. After the initial shock of the intrusion, Arthur had been on him in a flash. Using the fact the skinny outlaw was dumb struck to his advantage, Arthur had threaten he'd put a bullet between the young man's teeth then and there if he blabbed and Marston had nodded his head and said he quite liked living, so his secret was safe.

And to Arthur's complete shock, John admitted he _already_ knew. Had for going on nearly five years.

Both outlaws had left that hotel shocked in their own way but pleased the air was clear, as it ever could be between them. If anything though, John was even more clingy after that. Which Arthur found odd at first but his body and ego began purring loudly at, wanting more. And that curious purring never went away. Only intensified when he caught the outlaw staring at him when he thought he wasn't looking. The itch Arthur had put it down too, had turned into something _very_ different when he caught John Marston staring at him.

And it was driving him up the fucking wall.

"Where the hell is that bastard," John asked, scraggly hair framing his face, making Marston look wild as he squinted left and right down the way.

"You'd think he'd show up, considering this was his idea," Arthur huffed, before breathing in and sighing long.

His saddle would probably have blood on it by now.

Arthur Morgan looked up at the blue sky from under his gambler's hat and cursed again. Where the hell was this coach Micah had said was guaranteed to be here? He cast his mind back again further, distracted by John flicking hair out of his face.

Hosea knew the truth, as did Dutch, Bill, John, Tilly and Miss Grimshaw, though the rest of the gang had no idea, it seemed.

But he would always be grateful to Hosea, in particular, for confirming that he wasn't dying the first time it happened and it was normal as it could be for someone of Arthur's build. His adoptive father admitted Bessie had suffered from the Woman's Curse, before pulling out a wad of linen, offering the package to the distraught sixteen year old.

"Put that in your breaches," he had said simply, "Will stop the bleeding. Remember to change it every two hours when it's at it's heaviest. Will only be for a few days."

So that's the way it went.

Arthur was just glad that the older he got, the more infrequent it would happen, and he would be damned if he ever got used to it-

"You got a smoke?" John suddenly asked and Arthur grunted a yes, snapping out of his head. He popped one into his own mouth and then chucked the packet of premium cigarettes over. If they were going to wait then why not have a smoke to pass the time?

"You find a card, Marston-"

"Yeah, yeah I know," John sighed and squinted at the figure of a horse on the card, "Tennessee Walker?"

Arthur waved his hand out dismissively with a drawled "Nah." He'd already got that one.

"Alright then," John shrugged and popped the card in his own jacket.

Arthur inhaled a drag, blue eyes squinting at the other man next to him.

Marston really was becoming quite attractive as the days rolled passed. If only he would take a damn bath every so often and not yell like he was being set on fire each time. But then Arthur remembered the time two weeks ago that John had fallen asleep against his shoulder by the campfire, exhausted from fighting off Miss Grimshaw verbally manhandling him into a bath. His jet black and wet hair soaking Arthur's dark union suit and face nuzzling into his shoulder with mouth slightly parted, deep in slumber. Arthur had stilled at that. Excusing it that he didn't want to wake Marston but in truth he wanted to oddly reach down and softly kiss that unruly mop of hair. Instead, he carefully pulled his discarded tanned coat over John's shoulders, settling him in and being Marston's support as he dried off. The sigh of content that escaped Marston's lips made Arthur's heart clench and afterwards his coat had John's scent on it for the rest of the day.

And Arthur had loved it.

"Hey Fenton, you got your ears open?"

"What?"

"Hah, knew that would work," John smirked widely, the scars across his right cheek stretching as he tossed the box back.

"Only Hosea can call me that, you know," Arthur warned, catching it with one hand, as John chuckled while trying to roll another cigarette between his slim fingers.

"Why _does_ he call you that?"

"None of ya' damn business, is why."

John laughed loudly, the sound going straight to Arthur's crotch.

Arthur hated the fact that when he was alone these days and scratching that itch, it was always Marston's scarred face he pictured above him.

The older man grunted in annoyance, closing his eyes in tiredness, as John continued to guffaw.

He hated that nickname with a vengeance.

Hosea had started called Arthur 'Fenton' in front of John a few days ago, after Arthur had blown up at the younger man, who had been literally sitting and minding his own business, whittling some wooden cutlery on a log. When Arthur had calmed down from ragging on John, Hosea explained that Fenton was the name of a buffalo he had heard stories about, who would charge stationary horses he was so dumb in anger and pick on anything that was within distance.

And met his end when he charged the horse that Bessie was atop of.

Arthur got the meaning.

But it was damn difficult, for when those hot headed days rolled around, literally anything or anyone could set him off around camp. The other members, once coming to the conclusion he was probably drunk off his face, _again_ , if the periodical stench of cheap booze from his coat was anything to go by, gave him a wide birth. A few times Bill had met that challenge with foolish bravado but it was always incredibly brief those fights, with Arthur ending up more than likely laughing from his position on the floor at the other man's lack of intelligence, as he nursed a split lip Williamson had managed to land on him. Any blood that showed on his jeans was always from a fight, Arthur would say.

_Always._

And he prided himself on not seriously hurting anyone in camp.

Until one Micah Bell entered his life, that is.

For it was after Jenny had begged Arthur to protect her from someone chasing her. It didn't take much to figure out who she was running from. Bell would strut around camp, shooting his mouth off when he first joined, having Dutch wrapped round his finger or dick, no one was quite sure which, and being generally lecherous. Dutch was the only man who could control him, but even then Arthur and Hosea had doubts. Arthur never forgot the subtle look of hurt in Hosea's eyes when Dutch had spent hours chatting to Micah on con-worthiness of jobs and Arthur knew what that meant. Dutch and Hosea were considered akin to a married couple, at least in the eyes of the gang, but Dutch always had roving eyes with one currently on Molly and the other on Micah.

"He'll get bored and move on. Always does," Hosea had said, referring to those members who joined and left after a few months, wooed into Dutch's gang by the man himself. But Arthur and John hadn't missed the grin they got from Bell as he left Dutch's tent one night. They didn't want to know what it was doing to poor Molly; the woman was slowly losing her mind.

With Micah though, well, it had reached a head when Jenny had broken down in front of Arthur. If asked, Arthur Morgan would say he wasn't cruel, just realistic and loyal to a fault. There were rules around camp, even for a bunch of lawless outlaws such as themselves. But when Jenny had confided in him what Micah had really done...the rage he had felt had been literally blinding as he stormed over and grabbed that useless sack of shit round the neck and squeezed. He never killed in cold blood, but for Micah Bell and what he had done to Lenny's woman, he was willing to make an exception. He cursed he had not been able to save her honor from that predator back in Blackwater. The two cowboys would have torn chunks out of each other had the entire camp not intervened, an army of arms physically pulling Arthur off of the newcomer before blood could be shed.

Dutch had finally stepped in, ordering Morgan to calm the hell down and Micah away from Jenny. Arthur never forgot that shit eating grin he got from Bell's face as he walked back to his own tent, tipping his white hat at them and the rage, Arthur had felt, never left him.

Later, during another period of unstable emotions, he had confided with Mary Beth, once sitting on an upturned barrel, that he thought he was going crazy. To which she lent a helpful ear but wasn't able to offer more advice, sadly. She had no idea about the true nature of his body and Arthur wanted to keep it that way, even if he did try and broach the subject. She looked as confused as Karen did, before he waved the question off.

But then those days of heightened emotion, of anger, aching and wanting to shed treacherous tears, would miraculously vanish and he'd feel like himself again. In control. It was insane and he never knew why or when it would happen but he kept a record in his journal. He hated to acknowledge it was also just before he bled like a God damn wounded animal. So he kept those days as time he spent away from camp, to let off his temper in the wild and deal with the seemingly never ending flow of red from between his thighs. He could holler all he wanted when his hips and stomach would ache, with his horse to keep him company. A few bar fights usually got the tension out, but he kept his promise to Dutch and steered clear of drinking himself into a jail cell.

So the camp got used to his at whim presence and he'd be damned if he let anyone else know the truth of these outings and why he always carried rolls of stained off white linen. This time the pack had been given to him by Tilly, careful not to leave it on his table in case wondering eyes caught it but placing it in his chest, hiding it under his clothes. He gave her a stolen necklace last time as a thank you-

He was brought out of his deep and winding musing when the promised coach finally showed up to much rattling of wooden wheels on hard ground.

John Marston and Arthur Morgan immediately threw their cigarettes away, donned their masks and dealt with business, Micah-late-comer be damned. They said their lines and the robbery went smoother than either outlaw expected. All those being robbed coughed up nicely and no one was in dire need of being shot. Until there was distant gun fire and five white hat law enforcers showed up at the top of the road with uniforms that told everyone around they were Bounty Hunters.

And they had _hounds_.

The two men had grabbed what they could and ran for their lives, urging their horses to sprint and, knowing the land, they dived into the wilderness, splitting up and disappeared just as fast as the job began.

It was half an hour later that they met up again. John had seen Arthur's knackered horse at the water's edge, drinking it's fill. Arthur came out of the bushes, shifting his belt left and right with an uncomfortable frown. Trying to get comfortable as he slotted a foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself back onto his steed, Arthur hated the fact his linen bag had gotten lost on his gallop into the trees so changing was out of the question.

"You lost something?"

Arthur signed. John didn't know he was on and didn't want to bring up the subject. The damn thing had probably snagged onto a low lying branch. Perhaps he'd go back for it, or steal some from somewhere-

Faint barking drifted to them from down stream.

John turned to him with panicked eyes.

"Damn it, how'd they find us so fast?!"

"Come on, move!" Arthur had said and kicked his horse into sprint.

An hour more they galloped, trotted and walked in a circle, trying to out maneuver the law. But every now and again they could hear dogs barking in the distance and there was no way in hell they were leading them back to camp. Had to give 'em the run around first. They had found the white bag he had dropped, but he had no chance to open it. Arthur hated the fact his crotch was warm and wet now with the constant galloping and trotting. With no time to stop and properly sort himself out, he chanced looking down and saw red blooming on his jeans.

Shit.

Their horses began to walk steadily up a steep rocky hill on the Heartlands with crunching hooves, as the sun beat down upon them without mercy. The heat of the day making bugs chirp and the horizon swim in and out of focus.

And Arthur Morgan was exhausted.

He cast his half lidded eyes to John, who seemed like he was fairing okay, but beads of sweat fell down his tanned temple as they rode, his hair starting to mat together even more than it was. He looked filthy, but to Arthur, he suddenly felt more alert as he watched John struggling to deal with the heat. Noticing the subtle way his thighs urged Old Boy on, the way his lean yet strong arms were firmly holding onto the reigns, shoulders tantalizingly strong, lips parted in rasped breath-

A snake suddenly spooked Arthur's horse and it jerked upwards in a rear, the outlaw falling to the side but kept a hold, finally righting himself upon the saddle with a curse. Just when he was back in control, the snake long gone, he saw John flicking his eyes between his saddle and blue eyes in disbelief.

"Will you quit starin' at me?" Arthur snapped loudly.

"You're on the rag and didn't tell me?!"

Arthur swore.

"No wonder them hounds is following us," John continued to shriek, "You stink for miles around-!"

"Whadda' want me to do?" Arthur challenged, kicking his horse into a walk, "Shove a God damn cork up ma'self?"

"Maybe!" John shouted after him, urging Old Boy to keep up, "Then we would've given them the slip and not be chasing our damn tails!"

Arthur snapped and yanked at the reigns of his horse with a self deprecated laugh, the beast snorting as it came to a stop on the slope. This shouldn't be as hard as it was. They had finished the job, gotten their pay and should be back eating stew or playing poker. It was too hot, he was too tired and he was way too furious for this shit right now.

Arthur shifted as his aching hips sharply made themselves known again and his anger spiked.

"You know Marston, now I really know what Abigail sees in ya'. Got some real _charm_ there, you have. You interrogate her when 'er Grandma from Red Creek arrives too?!-"

"Shut up!" John shouted over him, brow pinched in anger, "I'm not the one bleeding all over their fucking saddle and don't you bring Abigail into this!"

"I told you I didn't want no part of this damn job, but you wouldn't shut your _God damn_ mouth up about it," Arthur continued to bellow, "The only reason I'm bleeding is that I'm not foolish enough to get myself with child-"

John shouldn't have tried to have the last word, really he didn't. But then again, this was John Marston in his twenties and things didn't always go through a mental filter.

"Maybe if you did then we wouldn't be in this mess-!"

There was an inhuman roar and Arthur launched himself at the younger man. Grabbing onto bony arms, the weight of the thirty-six year old was no match for John, as he was pulled from his saddle and the two went crashing to the ground. Old Boy and Arthur's horse neighed at the sudden action and both skittishly trotted out of the way as Arthur Morgan and John Marston fought in the dry dirt, skidding down the slate covered hill, rocks falling. The fight was dirty and brief. And ended up not as Arthur or John intended.

They tussled as they came to a natural stop, each man fighting to get the other on his back but, through size advantage, Arthur Morgan had the upper hand. Hair was yanked, clothes were pulled and buttons ripped clean off shirts. Until a wave of dizziness caught Arthur off guard and John used that opening to flip them, slamming Arthur onto his back, hands gripping wrists at the sides of the blonde's face and pushing down hard into the grey and yellow gravel.

There was a yelp of pain and Arthur wasn't sure why he made it at first.

Arthur coughed harshly as the dust settled and made to throw the weight of the other man off but realized two things in quick succession that set his blood on fire.

Marston was pressing his crotch into his own and using the pressure of his hips and steep gravity of the terrain to hold Arthur down the small slope.

And where Arthur's neck met his shoulder, John had sunk his teeth in.

Arthur jerked his own hips up but that only made it worse, or better he honestly didn't know, as the pressure of Marston's bite increased.

Suddenly Arthur was swamped by the smell that was inescapably _John_. Smoke, horse and that gun-oil scent mixed with a heavy and iconic musk. Strands of his black hair had fallen across his own blue gaze, sweat plastering them to his face. He was so shocked by the bite that Arthur didn't realize it at first but as time slowed he couldn't deny it. He felt the blunt edge of a thick hardness, shoving into a upper corner of his inner thigh. Arthur tried to blink the sun and John's hair out of his eyes, attempting and failing to ignore the fact that John Marston was hard for him. The taller outlaw made to throw the slightly shorter off, but John had pinned him down good. The slope was doing it's job of having gravity force Arthur's upper body to weigh several times more and fatigue did the rest. He was well and truly immobilized.

Shit.

The two men, not knowing what to do next, panted hard on the gravel slope, hearts hammering and breath heavy. In the fray, Arthur's black bandanna had come lose from his neck, his hat had fallen off and his top buttons were open, exposing a heaving and sweating chest, along with a bare and freckled shoulder that John was currently clamped down on. Arthur tried to ignore how ragged, hot and wet John's breath was against his skin and how it made him shudder to his very core.

This must be what a deer felt like under a wolf as it was about to be consumed.

He started to feel John shaking faintly from adrenaline and Arthur knew from the little whimper in his ear that John's jaw had locked.

"It's alright," Arthur soothed, forcing his voice into a gentle and quiet tone, as if calming a spooked horse, "It's alright..."

Arthur, all trace of fight slowly leaving his system as he caught his breath back, continued to sooth for a few minutes. Until he leaned the side of his face into that black mass, pressing his nose into John's hair.

"You're alright, John...."

John whimpered, nearly inaudible, but ever so slowly relaxed his jaw and, after a few moments more of reassurance, was able to let go. Arthur felt John's teeth leave an indent with a wince as his skin was released.

The younger outlaw slowly pulled back, hands still gripping the blonde's wrists, his stubble brushing against Arthur's own with heavy breaths, their noses brushing.

Arthur didn't know why he did it, but it felt like the right thing to do. He raised his head ever so slightly, so their foreheads touched and gazed into those scared dark eyes.

"You're alright, John....I'm here..."

John Marston gazed down with dilated eyes, his pupils blooming and cheeks red.

A shiver of fear, with heated desire, racked Arthur's body as he realized how wild John appeared with the wolf scars down his face and hair framing his features, like the Old Gods of this land had marked him for their own. A sudden, urgent and sheer animalistic need to be taken by John Marston floored his thinking from the way John was looking at him, and from the hardness pressing into that intimate spot, the possibility he was about to be made the hairs on the back of Arthur Morgan's neck stand up.

The two stared at each other and Arthur knew it was coming as John slowly leaned down.

Arthur couldn't look away.

John tentatively pressed his lips to those softly panting ones and the moment he did, Arthur replied with an uncensored groan of want that surprised even himself. Seeing Morgan answering so positively to this brazen act, spurred John on and he deepened the kiss. The two men continued slowly, wanting to savour this _thing_ between them, whatever it was, that had been unspoken for so many years that tasted of strong tobacco and cheap whiskey.

It was heaven.

Speeding up as each began to sink into lust, moaning into the affection, both urged on by the other's reactions. John's hands released Arthur's wrists and sunk into blonde hair, cradling the elder outlaw's face, as Arthur's fingers threaded through black strands. Seeking more friction, Arthur raised his aching hips in question and John thrust back an instant and desperate answer. Morgan broke away gasping for air at the confirmation, as Marston began to kiss and suck at that newly exposed neck, moaning his name as if in mantra and thrusting that hardness into Arthur's jeans.

Time seemed to stretch until the blonde, in a cool part of his brain, felt a warm wet patch snake up his lower back, slowly creeping up the skin on his spine and knew instantly what had caused it. But he didn't care, maybe later he would, but not right now. He squeezed his eyes shut as the midday sun shone down on them, with John's breathless grunts and whines in his ear; it was one of the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard.

"Need you," John rasped into an ear, biting at a lobe and Arthur let out an obscene moan at how right it all felt.

He reached up and pulled at John's waist, seeking the edges of breeches to pull them down. He wanted this, wanted Marston to take him. Right here, right now, before common sense prevailed for both of them. But as he did, that common sense began to seep in and, even if John wanted sex as much as he did, it ...shit, it couldn't be like this. He was in no condition too. Arthur begrudgingly stopped trying to free John and instead fingers settled into the hoops of his jeans, before there was a grunt of impatience and John reached down to Arthur's belt, quickly unbuckling him.

"But I'm-"

"I don't care," was all Marston could say in a whoosh of breath, as he began to desperately push clothing and gun belts out of the way. Damn it, now the hounds will definitely know they where right here if they did this, Arthur tried to mentally fight with himself. Maybe he could shimmy them onto his coat or something. But Arthur didn't have time to voice this as Marston slammed his mouth onto his own, yanked off anything that was in the way, and forced the outlaw's hips to line up with his own.

They broke apart, pulling air into their lungs, and pressed their foreheads together painfully as John pressed his erection in, both watching before he thrust a couple of times, gently testing. Like Arthur was china or he'd get a slap across the face for being too rough.

"I ain't Abigail, John," Arthur growled with spite and John took him at his word. Self control on Marston's part didn't last long, it never did, and he shoved himself in harshly before rapidly withdrawing, shoving Arthur's knees up to his chest as his pace increased to go deeper. Arthur, for his part, grabbed onto that scraggly mane at the back of John's head and pulled with a grunt of pain as the other man buried himself to the hilt. He would have let John continue at his punishing pace, but turned out the gravel they were on was not as understanding to his lower back, as it scraped painfully with every shunt to his body.

"Easy, Marston, easy!" he ground out between clenched teeth, fists at John's scalp, eyes squinting with strain up at the other man before he shut them at the repeating penetration, sweat dripping down his temple. John instantly relaxed his grip on those thighs, letting the blonde outlaw move his hips away onto softer gravel. Before eagerly gripping the body below him and returning to that brutal pace.

Arthur let his head fall back on the earth with a thud and let the sensations wash over him, as John pressed his forehead to a strong chest, his raspy voice half muffled with punched out sounds of effort and want. The sounds of their intense love making was _loud_ , echoing off the white rocks of the Heartlands around them, making a few white tailed deer look up at the commotion.

It was everything and nothing like Arthur had imagined as John leaned up and over him, with a hoarse and strained, "Look at me."

Arthur obeyed and locked his sky blue eyes onto ones full of love and affection. Both men trying to desperately tell the other outlaw things neither of Dutch's boys could say out loud. All those days when he had imagined whatever scenario would befall John taking him were always too outlandish, too impossible, too far from reality that he'd always bet on it never happening. Hell, he would have bet real dollar and dime money on it.

Turns out, he had just busted out of that game spectacularly.

Arthur watched with fascination as the stimulation was too much for the outlaw above him as John shut his eyes in a cry of pleasure, brow furrowed in concentration, his jerks becoming shorter, keeping himself at the deep point as he reached his peak. Arthur felt himself rising to his own orgasm, closing his eyes, when he heard his horse snort. Momentarily distracted, Arthur opened up his eyes to see the two beasts looking at them with indifference until Old Boy suddenly jerked up and bayed at something on their left.

A figure moved next to Arthur's vision and he turned his head in a daze just as John thumped a hand down on his tanned coat with eyes clenched tightly shut, gripping onto the fabric for dear life as he began to orgasm. But Arthur wasn't paying attention because he could have died right then and there the way his heart stopped.

For a couple of feet away, panting in the plain's dry heat and staring directly at them was a large and brown law dog.

Oh, _fuck_.

John paused as he felt Arthur's body go oddly ridged as a statue, hands gripping his upper arms, squeezing painfully. He looked up at Arthur's face from between his slowing thrusts, gasping for air with a bewildered frown, then over and saw.

There was a pause where no creature moved.

**BARK!**

"There they are!" a voice down the canyon shouted.

"Shit!" John blurted, seeing a mass of six men in uniform all now staring up at them.

And some of them were opened mouthed at what they saw.

"MOVE!" Arthur roared and, like lightning, shoved Marston off of him, wincing as the man pulled out sharply.

Both men scrambled to haphazardly pull jeans and breeches up, grabbing at pistols, as they climbed the small slope frantically as gun fire rang out. Running over to their panicking horses, bullets flying, Arthur skidded in the gravel as he grabbed his previously abandoned hat, shoved it on his blonde head and leapt on his horse. The beast skittered over the lose stone, wild hooves kicking in the dust, nearly colliding into John and Old Boy.

Over the crest of the slope they surmounted and both outlaws kicked their horses into a gallop. Faster they rode, flattening plants and surprising rabbits out their path with John leading the way in a thunder of hooves. As the wind and scenery whipped passed them at break neck speed, Marston kept checking over his shoulder to make sure the blonde was following as token gun fire was returned by Arthur. They ran and ran, through forests and roads with the odd traveller coming the other way telling them to slow the hell down, until the sun started to dip below the horizon and their horses couldn't take it anymore. They hit upon a river somewhere in Ambarino, letting their steeds grab their breath, both horses steaming in the low temperature with white sweat dripping down their coats, sides heaving from the effort.

"Christ, Arthur," John finally said as he watched Morgan get off his horse, adrenaline from the escape and what they had done, making him shiver with goosebumps. Or was that from the cold? John wasn't entirely sure. But he sure as hell felt on cloud nine.

"Don't worry, we lost 'em-"

"No, I mean you," John said with a raspy voice from exhaustion, adding a small and embarrassed smirk to his features as he grabbed his rolled up cigarette from a dark coat pocket, "Looks like you've just skinned a deer."

Arthur frowned in confusion until he saw Marston gesturing to his jeans as he lit up.

"Son of a bitch,' Arthur grumbled, having taken a quick glance. Enough of this bullshit, he was changing right here, right now. And getting rid of any trace that those bastard hounds could latch onto. It was just a damn coach with a couple of rich folk inside, what the hell had they stolen or done to warrant this kind of attention? Well, there was that Blackwater Ferry fiasco, he said to himself, the five thousand dollar price on his head, not to mention the fact that the law probably took offence he woke up this morning and took a shit.

Arthur coughed up phlegm and spat onto the ground, as tiredness made his vision wobble, watching as Marston took a deep drag, exhaling a large cloud into the cold air. Arthur didn't blame him; the boy was probably smoking to steady his nerves after the flight and-

Arthur paused as he saw John looking skittish, not meeting his eyes.

Marston.

John Marston.

John- _he-literally-just-fucked-you-_ Marston.

'Oh, Arthur, you _moron_ ,' Arthur heard a voice in his head berating him, that sounded suspiciously like Mary Linton. What the hell had he been thinking?! Was what happened ten years ago a joke? For fuck sake, Morgan, you've not changed and you've just messed everything between you and John up for good. The boy will probably run off again now when it sinks in what he's done.

And what if this got back to camp?

To Hosea?

To _Dutch?_

Arthur pinched his thumb and forefinger between his eyes briefly, ignoring the stab of panic in his chest that John would leave again, before nodding that they needed to keep moving, nothing else mattered. Even if he wanted to sleep this entire day off and deal with the inevitable fallout from John later, as he saw the younger man carefully watching him, keeping close to Old Boy. Probably in case Arthur fully grasped what he'd done and go for him. The blonde shook his head at the situation before Arthur stopped and snorted at John, chucking an amusing finger at the man's own crotch.

"You forget that you were, er...," Arthur said with an amused grin to lighten the mood, "...skinning the same damn one?"

John tilted his head at the words with a hoarse 'Huh?', but finally got the meaning and didn't look down too long at the state of his own dark jeans. His face flushed red as Arthur suddenly stood up straight, walked the short distance over to him and slapped him on the upper arm with a tired smile. Marston watched entranced as Arthur took the lit cigarette from his lips, popped it between his own teeth and nodded at something over John's head.

"I have an idea."

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:  
> Story inspired by a writing prompt and how suspiciously fast Bounty Hunters and their blood hounds seem to find Arthur. Also added my own interpretation behind why Colm says, "Arthur, I've missed you" during the mission "Blessed are the Peacemakers".
> 
> Cannon Note:  
> In a hidden dialogue in game, Micah reveals to Arthur and Bill that he slept with Jenny behind the gang's camp before the Blackwater heist. It is heavily implied this was against Jenny's wishes.
> 
> History Note:  
> 'Grandma from the Red Creek' was used in the Old West as slang to refer to menstruation.


	2. Granite Pass

The two tired outlaws led their horses by the reins up the steep and winding path to the roaring waterfall, turning off when the steel lines of the railroad appeared. Carefully guiding their snorting animals through the calmer part of the falls, Arthur Morgan led the way with a kerosene torch held up high, checking over his shoulder to see John Marston was not far behind with Old Boy.

John shivered in the air, one arm leading his horse and the other around his middle, as night and the stars above crept up on them. He gazed up ahead and saw Arthur's gambler's hat turning this way and that, checking for whatever he was checking for as he navigated them to wherever they were going. Into a small pool of ice cold water they entered, that reached their knees, and both man and beast trudged across the space until Morgan stopped.

"Hah! Knew it were this one," Arthur laughed with a large smile, quickly patting his horse on the neck and surging forwards out of the water and onto the shore of the dark cave beyond, "Hounds can't smell blood if there ain't none. Water will wash it right away and by the time they find it-"

John startled as Arthur turned to him with a grin from under his wet hat, "We'll be _long_ gone."

"If you say so," John had replied over the sound of roaring water behind them, as he lead Old Boy into the small and damp cave. The animal nickered in trepidation, jerking it's head back in protest, as it was led into the dark and freezing mist. John didn't blame the animal. For not only was the sheer amount of water around them nerve-racking, but for John Marston; the fucking surreal and erotic sounds of him and Arthur making love still echoed around in his skull, setting his teeth on edge-

A single brown hat was perched on a rock to his right.

John tilted his head at the odd sight. Covered in wet spots of green mold, the Nevada Hat sat innocently up on it's throne which, from the condition it was in, had been there for a quite a while. His interest peaking, John reached curiously out towards it-

"Don't touch that hat, Marston."

John frowned over at Arthur's echoing voice, pausing with his hand outstretched before relenting.

They both entered further into the dark cave, the sound of hooves echoing off the chamber like walls and John, for one wild moment, had no clue where they were. Like they had fallen off the face of the Earth or into the ground itself. But he'd guessed, judging by the bridge of train tracks on the opposite side of the falls, that this was Granite Pass, somewhere over the Whinyard Strait; northern most part of Ambarino.

Shit, it was cold out here.

The temperature kept dropping until it levelled out along with the cave. John squinted as his eyes adjusted and saw in the dim light of Arthur's light swinging from his hand, a dry platform, with the sounds of the falls almost silent behind them now.

"Used this place a couple of times," Arthur said, gesturing to the old bedding in the corner, as he let go of the reins and set about placing the kerosene lamp off to the side, his jeans dark and wet from the pools.

"So this is where you'd come?" John blinked as light filled the small space. His own legs were numb from the water also, but John was too anxious to notice.

"One of the places," Arthur replied, taking the reins from John and tying up Old Boy, while still leaving his own horse oddly unhitched, "But there's game outside. Berries, too."

John nodded as Arthur, with a clanging of belts, began unsaddling his own horse, grunting with effort.

"Food just drops from the sky around here. Don't need to store much."

"Uh huh," John had replied in thought, completely distracted by his surroundings. He carefully roamed his eyes around him with intense curiosity, studying the possessions scattered here and there as Arthur put the saddle to one side and began lighting their camp fire. Few bottles of half drunken Guarma rum, Kentucky Bourbon, Arthur's favourite brand of Whisky, cigarette packets, gun oil and the like were scattered around their feet. Empty cans of corn, beans and peaches were stacked off to the side with the only neat things being two very large blankets that were rolled up, almost with prior reverence, and slotted into an alcove above the platform. John peered over and saw a raised makeshift bed of inviting, and very much cold resistant, thick furs peaking out from under a protective tarp covering. He blinked at the set up and made a mental note to add something akin to that to his own cot back at camp-

John jerked back more than he should have as Arthur passed him by, suddenly nervous at the proximity of Morgan's body to his own.

Arthur was going to ask why but he knew.

The silence was deafening.

"Arthur-"

"Not now, John," Arthur warned with a tired voice, looking away, knowing exactly what Marston wanted to talk about, "Not now. And do the decent thing and turn around, give a man some privacy."

John frowned and shrugged with a confused sigh but did as he was told. Sitting down on the nearest platform, a wooden crate covered in an old deer hide, he averted his gaze which seemed pointless after what they had just done.

"You know...," John's hoarse voice floated down the short distance to Arthur at the back of the small cave, "Them fellas saw us. What we were doing."

"I said not now, Marston," Arthur's voice drifted over to him as the sounds of water sloshing and clothes being removed echoed somewhere behind John, along with the fast rushing of the small rapids being sucked down into the underground caves.

"When? When are we gonna talk about it?" John shot angrily over his shoulder, before looking back and staring up at the makeshift raised bed of furs across from him. He sighed with annoyance when he got no reply, seeing the evidence of him going to town on Arthur staining his jeans. Hating the silence and letting curiosity get him riled up, John reached over with one hand and pulled that tarp off of the furs. Dust and the odd bug tumbled onto the floor as the covers of extremely thick bear, wolf and a few other pelts he didn't recognize, were revealed. Damn, Arthur was quite the hunter. John waited for the berating of touching Arthur's possessions but it never came.

Only more silence.

John looked up as Arthur finally walked back over to him a few moments later. New dark jeans where his old and stained ones once were, tanned coat with a clean blue shirt with no trace of red. John swallowed thickly as he saw erect nipples through the man's shirt on that broad chest, damp patches clinging to the man's skin where he hadn't dried off. Marston dragged his eyes upwards and saw Arthur's dirty blonde hair, that was slowly growing out, sticking out from under his hat, strands stuck to his cheeks with a stubble that darkened his hard jaw. The blonde outlaw threw his wet clothes onto a log, but kept a thick and very red scrap of linen in his hands. John flinched when Arthur shoved two fingers into his mouth and whistled, the sound sharp and piercing in the small space.

"Here boah!"

Arthur's horse came trotting over and stopped before them, nickering with ears twitching expectantly.

John watched as Arthur dug into his pocket and offered a peppermint to the beast and, while it was distracted, took that rag and began tying it into the end of the horse's tail.

"Jesus, Arthur, what are you doing?" John asked looking sick, knowing exactly where that rag had come from.

"Making sure we ain't followed," Arthur said, eyes not leaving the task at hand as he platted the rag in a certain way into his steeds's tail, folding the end and loosely tying it further up in a loop. When finished, he slapped that horse hard on the back side and the beast took off, thundering out of the cave and into the night.

Arthur nodded with a satisfied smile then turned back to John's shocked eyes at the camp fire.

"Don't worry, he's done this before," Arthur said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, as he moved back to the fire side.

"Done what?"

"He'll go off, end of the rag will hit the ground," Arthur said as he wiped his hands on a wet cloth, "hounds will follow."

John stared at him bewildered as Arthur continued.

"And we've just bought us some time."

John looked at where the horse had exited and frowned.

"Ain't you worried 'bout wolves?"

"If they can catch him, they can have him," Arthur deadpanned, moving a crate nearer the fire to sit on, "Horse is too damn fast, I've been on him when a pack went for us. He'll be fine."

"And them hounds?"

"Rag will fall off in a few hours."

"Then?"

"Then," Arthur said as he began tending the fire, amused by Marston's questions, "he'll meet up with his friends, have a great time and finish the night by having his end away with some wild stallion's mare," Arthur chuckled loudly, white teeth flashing, as the flames caught in the wood, "Will see him in a couple of days."

"Sure you ain't talking about yourself?" John smiled with a scoff of a laugh, remembering all the times he saw Arthur sneaking back into camp at God knows what time of the morning.

"The old me, perhaps," Arthur mumbled.

John looked over at his own steed.

"I wish Old Boy was like that."

"Hey, you leave him alone," Arthur said, with a warning finger pointed at the younger man, "He's a good horse. Loves you, he does. Is one of the only few."

'Including you?' John wanted to ask but kept his mouth shut. He watched as Arthur pulled his saddle up onto strong thighs, wet cloth in hand, and started to clean off the monthly bleed that had seeped into hardened leather. John chanced it and looked down at himself.

"Damn it, I gotta wash."

"Do it in the back," Arthur's voice rumbled with authority, throwing a couple of clean wash cloths at him, "Where the water gets sucked out. And you wash them jeans, too. Lookin' like a right sorry state of affairs."

John scoffed but set to work, grabbing his spare clothes from his saddle bags. Back of the cave was where the water did in fact gather into a small pool, to John's surprise. Cave must have an underground water system that lead to who knows where... John Marston squinted and saw a discarded butt next to his naked feet and threw that spent cigarette into the pool. He watched as it spiralled lazily in a clockwise motion before it became caught in the hidden current and was sucked out into a channel under the rocks. Hearing Arthur prepping food, he stripped quickly, shuddering as the chill hit his skin and then paused, seeing the full extent of Arthur's condition painted onto his crotch. Quickly washing the key areas down, teeth chattering in the cold, he dunked the cloth into the water and ringed out as much as he could before repeating. He was scrubbing his face with the second cloth, all evidence of their passions now gone from his body, when he heard Arthur moving around behind him.

"What's that?" John asked, drying himself off and pulling on the fresh red union suit, dark jeans and orange fur lined brown jacket he always stored on Old Boy. Ah, it felt good to be warm again.

"What? This...?," Arthur said, standing in front of him, holding a small tin between thick fingers, "Oh, nothin'...just...this is what's gonna stop, what we-"

John suddenly wasn't listening anymore as the memory and heady sounds of Arthur crying out in passion slammed into focus. He held his breath as Arthur waved the tin into the air hoping it would finish what he meant. John felt his heart clenching, belly firing up as finally Arthur acknowledged it had happened. _They_ had happened-

"Not that the timing's right, anyway," Arthur said, interrupting himself, evaluating the tin's contents.

John stared in a trance as he saw in his mind's eye Arthur's gaze below him showing mutual love and need as he was taken so wantonly-

“And you didn't finish, so...,” Arthur continued mumbling, pressing a finger into dusted remains of dried contraceptive herbs.

John was brought sharply back to reality when Arthur snapped the tin shut.

"What?" John's startled voice shot, literally having no clue what the older man had been alluding too.

Arthur saw the vacant look in John's eyes and gave a tight smile from under his hat.

"Nothin' you need worry 'bout," Arthur said, knowing the boy hadn't been listening, and thumped him on the shoulder, perhaps a little bit harder than he had intended.

John let out a breath as he was shunted sideways, watching as Arthur walked away to tend to the fire. What the hell was happening here? He felt...he felt...trapped. Trapped, confused and ready to run. He wanted this day to end. Wanted normality back, for what ever passed as normal in their world. Wanted to go back to them both sitting on their horses, waiting for the coach of rich folk to show up and cussing Micah's no-show.

Definitely not standing here battling the want to both fuck and fight Arthur Morgan.

John looked over and watched the man carefully lay out their own wet clothes on logs to dry. John stared around at the cave skittishly, looking for a way out if this uneasiness didn't abate, goosebumps never leaving his skin. What the hell was Arthur doing? First, he wouldn't acknowledge it had happened, then he would and now the notorious outlaw was acting like it was nothing. Nothing! John closed his eyes, wishing it had never happened between them but knew it would be a complete and utter fucking lie. He'd wanted Arthur ever since he could remember and that now it had happened...where the hell were they meant to go from here?

John looked up as water dribbled down a stalactite above him, dripping onto his head in the damp humidity. He wanted to go home. Back to camp. Listening to Uncle belly aching, Javier singing in words he couldn't understand and even that damn gramophone Dutch seemed to love so much. Was less complicated back at camp. Back then.... until he metaphorically, and quite literally, fucked it all up-

"You hungry?"

"...Starving," John said, eyebrows raised at the sudden change of topic. He pulled his dark jacket closer around himself, the ends of his hair dripping with water into the furred orange inner-lining as he made himself comfortable at the fireside.

"Here," an equally damp Arthur said, digging into his satchel and pulling out a dried hunk of meat.

John paused.

"I ain't gonna bite, John," Arthur almost laughed, noticing how on edge Marston was, before he tilted his head at him with a playful smile, "I'll leave that to you."

John looked down at his dried ration with an incredibly small and awkward smile on his scarred face, all appetite lost, but took it anyway between slim fingers.

They quietly began to eat and dry off as the crackling of the sticks and wood settled them in for the night, smoke wafting up high into a natural vent above them. It was almost peaceful, this quietness between them...if John could help not noticing the way Arthur would subtly wince mid-chew every so often.

"I'm...I'm sorry...," John finally said, sounding almost annoyed.

Arthur turned to him with wide blue eyes, half chewing on his own food of minty venison.

"Sorry?" he muffled.

"Yeah...," John said, "...the biting and the...well, you know."

Arthur carefully chewed and swallowed in thought before smiling, "Ah, it were nothin'. And besides...," he continued, scratching under his jaw, "I weren't complaining much."

"You told me to go easy!" John suddenly blurted.

"I weren't complaining _much_ is what I said!" Arthur defended then scowled, "Jesus, Marston. Do you need to have the last goddamn word on everything?"

"Maybe I do when we just made love and you're acting like it was a joke."

"Made love?" Arthur repeated with a confused frown from under his gambler's hat, "Is that what that was? We made _love_?"

"Yeah!" John scowled with a nod, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Arthur looked surprised.

"What?!" John shot, throwing all decorum to the wind.

"Well I....well all's I saw," Arthur started with a confused laugh, "was we robbed a couple of poor bastards, got our asses bushwhacked and took leave of our senses."

John stared into the man's face in angry disbelief. Because Arthur had done a spectacular job of avoiding any and all eye contact. John's brown eyes desperately tried searching for the truth somewhere in the midst of all this unspoken crap they had piled onto each other over the years; the teasing, the insults, the secret looks of longing both men tried to hide from the other. John held his ground, scanning the side of Morgan's face he could see in the dim light. He waited. Waited for Arthur to look at him, however brief.

But it never came.

John finally lost it when Arthur went to open his mouth but winced instead.

"You know something, Arthur?" Marston started with a snarl to his hoarse voice, "Until now? I never took you for a coward."

_That_ got Arthur Morgan's attention.

"John I-John? JOHN!" Arthur shouted after him as the shorter outlaw stood up and stormed away, "JOHN MARSTON!"

John moved, where to he hadn't a clue and didn't give a shit. But he knew he had to get the hell away from Arthur. Good Lord, what an idiot he had been. He knew the history Arthur Morgan had with sex. Saw the numerous times the man had returned from his thoughtless nights out, wishing he could tell him that there was someone in camp he could do it all with. He hated that Arthur had confided in that bastard Mac Callander more about those nights then anyone else and he hated the fact that even though he scrubbed himself raw he could still smell that intoxicating scent that was Arthur Morgan-

"John, calm down-"

The reaction was instant from the other outlaw as Arthur, unthinkingly, grabbed a hold of a coated shoulder. John Marston spun and threw himself at that larger body, catching Arthur completely off guard.

If Morgan didn't want to talk normally then fine, he'd beat it out of him in a fight, just like when they were younger.

They grappled but Arthur was careful not to be dragged down onto the floor again, even when his hat was knocked off, as he tried to get a hold on John's arms. Marston yanked an arm out of the lock and threw a punch but Morgan, anticipating this, dodged and grabbed hold of the younger man and threw him down onto the floor, straddling him and using an arm across John's neck to subdue him.

Until he realized too late that John had planned it.

"Don't bite me, John,” Arthur warned, “Don't bi- I SAID DON'T BITE ME!" he yelled angrily as John saw his chance and clamped down on a hairy lower arm. Without missing a beat, Arthur hauled that skinny outlaw up with a loud shout, his other arm lifting a struggling John up and slamming him down hard against the thick furs on the raised sleeping platform. Arthur looked down, as John wrapped his legs painfully around those broad hips and squeezed. Arthur yelped at the pain, unable to break free, but paused suddenly when he saw those frightened dark eyes that were pleading at him to help.

John's hands desperately pulled and yanked at Arthur's shirt clumsily, trying to regain some power and continue the fight. He rasped against the man's skin that tasted of sweat and soap, growling in frustration. But as always, Arthur was too strong for him and, even worse, John was struggling to relax his bite as he fought to let go. But it was useless as, even though he'd planned a quick but hard nip initially, his jaw had other ideas as it quickly locked when Arthur had slammed him down. John's breathing became even more rapid when he realized his plan had backfired, whining at losing control again, spit dribbling from the corner of a mouth with barred teeth.

"You fool. Now look what you've gone and done...,” the blonde said with a defeated sigh as John's hands came up in a near panic and pulled at Arthur's hair. Arthur hissed as John got a good fistful and forced the elder outlaw's head to the side, a jolt of the erotic flashing between them.

John stared up at Arthur, fingers still seized in that damp hair, as the moments passed them by. His brown eyes flashing a mixture of anger, hurt and terror, breathing heavily around that arm as dazzling blue eyes called out at him to still.

Arthur was panting hard himself as he realized they had reversed their positions as back on the Heartlands. He struggled not to let dizziness overwhelm him and forced clarity to the front of his mind. They needed to calm down. Or more pressingly, he needed to calm John down. _  
_

"John I...," Arthur said, blue eyes pleading with unspoken words before he gave into himself and stopped being so damn yellow. Arthur leaned down slowly, John relaxing his fist, and simply pressed his forehead to Marston's.

Nothing was said.

Nothing was done.

Only heavy breathing and Arthur's very unusual patience, as he closed his eyes and waited.

Arthur kept the man where he was, pressed against dark furs, as John made token struggles here and there. But in the end, Marston relented as his famous temper cooled and he steadied his breathing. As a reward, John got a press of Arthur's tender lips on the upper corners to the bridge of his nose.

As Arthur repeated on the other side, continuing to caress with those soft touches, John calmed further, the comforting smell of Arthur and tenderness of the man's actions overwhelming him; his jaw ever so slowly relaxing.

When John was finally able to let go, Arthur didn't even look at the damage. He drew his arm back and used both hands to gently cradle the sides of John's face below him.

They kissed slow and tender.

"I meant it, Arthur," was all John could say in a horse whisper, when they finally broke away, “I need you.”

Arthur's features softened as he ran a thumb down one side of John's cheek, tracing a scar to his jaw line, one he had stitched himself.

"Then I'm just as 'bout a bigger fool as you," Arthur said warmly, his eyes sparkling in the low light.

John's eyes never left the man above him, utterly captivated as Arthur traced his thumb over his upper lip where he could never get rid of that stubble and over the short scar to his pink lips.

"But just...," Arthur said, suddenly looking worried, frowning as if struggling to verbally articulate himself,  "...we'll work out and worry where this...whatever this is we got goin' on, fits later. For now, let's...sleep," Arthur said before he added a _very_ rare word that John hadn't heard in months, "Please?"

John Marston nodded, never wanting those fingers to stop touching him, as he leaned into that warm and rough palm against his scared cheek.

"And don't apologize,” Arthur said, seeing the question about to air, “I know you don't have the brains to control ya' damn jaw."

John laughed softly to himself, "You got that right."

The air was still tense but a calm acceptance enveloped them both as they broke away. Arthur pulled the shorter man up and they set about finishing their rations, offering some burdock to Old Boy, before turning in for the night.

John gradually began getting ready for sleep, his heart still thumping wildly, and ignored the hope that was shot down instantly at sharing a bed with Arthur when he saw the outlaw making separate sleeping arrangements for him. But John would take it and loved the fact that, even as his improvised sleeping bag was placed at the base of the sleeping platform, it was literally next to Arthur's one above.

He bedded down with thanks, shedding his clothes down to his red union suit, ignoring the cold chill with all his might and the need to reach out and seek physical connection to the other man, as they bid each other a good night. John snuggled down under one of those thick blankets, drawing his feet up under it as the cold air began to nibble at his toes, the dying fire in the pit embers now. John felt his eyes heavy as he laid there, the minutes rolling past, but he couldn't sleep. What they had done in the Heartlands and just now repeating behind his eyelids and in his ears. Did...was it true? Did Arthur feel the same way? He said he was as bigger fool as him, so...

John looked up to check he wasn't being watched before he nuzzled his head into the ball of furs that were his make-shift pillow, loving the fact it smelt of pure Arthur.

The waterfall's churn was soft in the background, along with Old Boy's snorts as the horse finally fell asleep, standing up at the other side of the cave from them.

But it wasn't long before that calm was broken as Arthur Morgan shifted with a grunt from atop the sleeping platform.

"Goddamn it," John heard the man mumble after a while of rustling.

"You good?" John asked into the air.

"No...," Arthur admitted with a frown, rubbing a hand over his lower back. He felt the angry welts where the gravel had scraped his skin away during their passions, but that wasn't what was annoying him. Pains from cuts and grazes were part of life and both he and John had learnt to deal. But this intimate ache was his alone and it was two fold.

"What is it?" Marston asked, turning his head and looking over and up at Morgan's refusal to answer.

Arthur, lying on his side towards John, blinked slowly at the man below him and looked away in the dark.

"...I hurt you, didn't I?" John said, frown appearing.

"No, Marston, you didn't. Now quit sayin' that," Arthur shot back angrily before getting a hold of himself. The boy was only trying to help, for Christ's sakes, Morgan. "It's...it's my hips," he admitted with a self defeated sigh, "...happens every goddamn time."

John turned over onto his side in his sleeping bag, leaning up on an elbow and watched Arthur turn away from him on the furs above.

"Every time?"

"No, not that... _that_ comes in waves," Arthur huffed, before grumbling so quiet John almost missed it, "Forgot it did, it's been so damn long."

John frowned. Arthur hadn't had sex for a while before today? That was news... before an idea struck him like lightning. It was bold, it was reckless and selfish as hell, but John Marston knew he wouldn't get another chance like this. And besides, how the hell could he sleep with Arthur moaning in pain, he argued with himself.

"Let me help."

"What can you do?" Arthur asked over his shoulder, the bite not intentional but it was there all the same.

"I can help. I know a few tricks...," John said defensively. He pushed the guilt that he learnt this particular skill from Abigail a few years back.

"A few tricks that don't involve being saved?"

John ignored the tease with great difficulty and waited.

Arthur huffed, his head turning away at John's refusal to take the bait. But, you know what? If it would shut that gravelled voice up for five minutes then he was game. Even better if it did shut the pain in his hips up, too, he thought with a sliver of hope. He flicked the bear hide off of his body with a soft thump.

"Fine."

John instantly got up onto his knees. He feasted his eyes on that tantalizing back presented before him and reached a nervous hand out. Was Arthur actually letting him do this? He continued to survey his canvas as he gently pressed his thumbs to Arthur's spine and the man hissed, before relaxing into the touch. Thrilled that Arthur was accepting this impromptu massage, John continued on, even as dark as it was, his night vision being aided by the embers crackling nearby.

It was slightly awkward at the angle Arthur was lying down at, alongside the course fabric of his shirt but, as if reading his mind, Morgan suddenly made to sit up.

John retracted his hands instantly, watching to see if he had let his impulses and selfishness get the better of him.

Taking off that blue summer shirt, John watched as Arthur moved over onto his stomach, crossing his arms and resting his chin on top.

John paused, breath catching in his throat as he stared at naked skin, thrilled that his plan was actually fucking working-

"You waitin' on a train, Marston?"

John didn't say anything as he was captivated by that unbelievable invitation. He stared at a semi naked Arthur Morgan, his lower half being framed by dark jeans. Shoulders strong and peppered with freckles and John followed like a love sick fool. He climbed up the short distance to the sleeping platform, trying not to show how eagerly he wanted this. Scooting over and straddling those thick thighs only a few hours ago he was gripping in passion. He leaned back on his knees and down at Arthur. Having full access now, the top of the cave brushing his head if he sat up straight, John hesitantly pressed his palms to that strong spine and kneaded the flesh he found there ever so slowly. Soft sighs encouraged him on as he worked until he reached those hips.

And that got Arthur Morgan moaning like a two dollar whore.

"Christ...," Arthur hissed, utterly melting under the touch.

Marston, struggling to ignore how hard he was, moved his hands up but Arthur's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, roughly putting it back where it was on his lower back.

"...hnn, there..."

John smiled, glad that Arthur couldn't see him do so. He continued as ordered at that spot, brushing his fingers over skin and scars. Using his body weight to add pressure in all the right places. He grew more and more power drunk and reckless as he watched Arthur come undone before him, beyond stunned his plan to touch Arthur more had worked. But he paused when he saw the fresh gravel scrapes from earlier.

Arthur felt the hesitation.

"...John?"

"Your back," the black haired outlaw said with a frown. Shit, had the ground been that hard? Had he been that rough?

"It's nothin'," Arthur mumbled, eyes closing. He frowned, coming out of that trance when he heard John move away, his skin growing cold at the lack of contact. The sounds of leather and metal softly clashing together, along with a snort from Old Boy, got his attention and he slowly lifted his head from his arms to see John returning from searching in his horse's saddlebags. Arthur waited with curiosity as the skinny outlaw returned back to his position, the layered furs bouncing slightly at the movement.

John unscrewed the circular tin and scooped up some of the white and thick healing salve and gently pressed it to those scrapes in the near darkness.

Arthur's face showed discomfort at first, burying his head into his arms, but he let the outlaw behind him continue. He pressed his face harder into his arms, for the gentle way John was touching him, so careful and reassuring, had Arthur almost losing his head to hidden confessions right then and there. Until John returned to his massaging, fully pulling those jeans off now and pushing them to the side. Arthur would have raised an eyebrow at how far John was pushing his luck, but waves of base want and sheer exhaustion stopped him.

John Marston continued to massage those strong legs, all the way down to Arthur's feet, taking care to repeat the same on each. It was hard work and working up a sweat was inevitable in the warmer air of close body heat. John undid his union suit and pushed it off his shoulders, pooling at his wait, the cool air soothing his skin. But he didn't stop. Continuing with the ministrations, John didn't leave any part of Arthur's back, or legs, untouched. He wasn't sure why at first, but he deliberately left touching Arthur's ass, for he was completely unsure what the outlaw's reaction would be. As much as he wanted a repeat performance before they were chased, John knew it would be too much to ask. Arthur was exhausted, still at the call of mother nature's monthly visit and John knew not to push his luck...maybe...God, he wanted to kiss him.

When finished, John moved up and above Arthur, digging his fingers into broad shoulders to work them next and saw the bite mark he'd left earlier on the Heartlands and finally lost his head.

Arthur very slowly opened his eyes, as John began kissing the back of his neck. Soon those lips were where that dark blonde hair met neck and he shuddered, feeling John's hot breath against his skin.

Feeling dangerously wild at how far this was going, John moved up to better kiss the back of Arthur's thick neck and accidentally pressed his hard member against Morgan's ass.

Arthur's reaction was instantaneous. He pushed himself up on hands and knees, bracing himself as John acted on pure instinct alone. Selfishly, and with all restraint gone, John Marston freed himself with one hand and got into position, pushing aside Arthur's protective linen with the other. No words were spoken as John Marston pressed in, thrusting a few times to enter until he was sheathed fully.

It was slow and purposeful, nothing like their first time. With the law no longer breathing down their necks or a law dog to interrupt, the two outlaws tried to take their time. But for a life living on the run, time was everything and it became apparent that this didn't change anything, as John gave into that rapid tempo.

Arthur, struggling to keep up, looked down between his arms and legs and saw a red line trickle down his thigh, threatening to sink into the furs. He cursed inwardly with a frown, lips parted as he gasped in pain and pleasure but quickly spotted his discarded jeans and summer shirt. He grabbed them with one hand and shoved both into the gap between his legs, the thick fabric adding leverage to his pelvis as John continued-

Arthur suddenly cried out as John brushed against that spot deep inside him. Before he could recover, Marston pressed down on those hips and Arthur yelled again, shoving himself back further into the outlaw behind him on his hands and knees as he began to orgasm. Hard and fast their grinds became until John punched out a whine as Arthur gripped him from within and it was all over.

John collapsed onto the man below him, arms shaking, trying to hold himself up over that broad back. Sweat stung his eyes as his post orgasm flooded his mind and floored his limbs.

They laid like that, both half between this world and the next, exhausted from avoiding the law all day, escaping out of state and all the other crap that they had gone through. Not to mention that this thing between them was becoming more and more real. For a long time neither wanted to move. Until the cold of the night roused them both.

Arthur began to turn his whole body around to lye on his back and, taking the cue, John pulled out slowly and reluctantly. He watched mesmerized as Morgan groaned at the action, not looking at him, flopping onto his back, barrelled chest heaving. It wasn't long though before Arthur opened his eyes slowly and gazed up, feeling John's essence escaping and swallowed as he continued to pant softly. Without breaking eye contact, he gently guided John to lean on his elbows, sweating chests flushed together, actions guided by pure adoration.

"What are we doing, Arthur?" John asked in rasps, gazing down at the beautiful man below him, who was looking at him like there was no one else in the world, "What _is_ this?"

"I don't know," was all Arthur could rumble, a finger lazily stroking up and down the length of John's arm tenderly. His voice was hoarse from yelling, but his eyes said a hell of a lot more _was_ going on here.

John leaned in as their lips met again, slow and tender, stubble brushing.

Arthur slowly pressed a hand to the side of John's shoulder, tipping the man over gently. Leaning up and drawing the last thick blanket over them, kicking the soiled breeches, summer shirt and pad to the side.

John took the cues he was given and allowed Arthur to spoon up behind him, an arm wrapped securely around his middle.

"Jesus, Arthur, you're a furnace."

"Can thank the Almighty for that," the larger man mumbled into the back of John's neck, "Besides, don't need you freezin' ya' balls off."

John, still in an exhausted daze from his own efforts saw the rumpled up clothes off to the side at their feet, dotted with their actions and evidence of Arthur's condition.

"...You think it'll stop by tomorrow?"

"Maybe," Arthur drawled, voice thick with sleep, before he thrust his groin into Marston's backside with a grunt, ignoring the mess between his legs. He was too fucking tired to even think about it. He'd sort it out in the morning, law and their dogs be damned if they could find them out here in the ass crack of no-where. "Now shuttup, I'm tryin' to sleep."

John almost rolled his eyes at the action but settled at smirking to himself. He couldn't really sleep, not yet anyway. It was all so damn surreal and he wanted to savour this moment of intimacy with Arthur. No gang around to see them, no Micah or law to contend with...just the two of them in the thick furs, haze of warm body heat and afterglow. John gazed around at the cave they shared, at all the mundane items that were so much more interesting now. Until his eyes fell onto a barely visible old mouldy hat outside the cave, high up on that rock.

"Hey Arthur...who's hat is that anyway...?"

But the outlaw behind him was already out cold.

John sighed at the mystery but finally closed his eyes with an exhausted smile and, for once in his damn life, felt safe enough to dream.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannon Note:  
> Location of the waterfall is indeed up near Granite Pass, with a Nevada Hat sitting on the nearby rocks (the in-game story behind the hat is not related to the hat in this fic) There is sadly no cave behind the waterfall, so created one for the needs of this fic.


	3. Scars

The dawn chorus usually signaled a short and sharp jolt of awareness for John Marston. Accompanied more times than none by pain. Either in his head from the result of allowing the bottle to get what little better of him was left, some gun graze or random insect bite, combined with a stomach gripped in agony from having spent another night going hungry.

So waking up warm and safe was so extremely rare for John it was almost alien. Not to mention that those pains decided not to show today so he must have done something good (or bad, let's be honest) the night before. Probably snuck into a homestead again like when he was a kid, he mused. Having known the rightful family who owned it were away long enough for John to rob 'em blind. But not before lying on the main bed, spread eagled, pretending it was his own. He never meant to fall asleep but remembered the glorious ease he felt upon waking.

Until John fully grasped he was, in fact, lying in a pool of his own piss from drinking the entire contents of the family's wine cabinet.

But damn did _this_ bed smell fucking great.

Was soft to boot, too.

John Marston awoke to the sounds of a horse nickering nearby, followed by someone snoring softly in his ear. Frowning as he slowly came too, John grunted as he felt a larger body shift near him and was suddenly aware that he wasn't alone. Which was odd as the outlaw was used to sleeping by himself. He'd not shared a bed with another for quite sometime. So coming to the automatic conclusion it was probably Abigail that he'd fallen into bed with, which usually happened when he hit the bottle hard, John turned over and opened up his eyes expecting to see the camp whore.

Instead it was Arthur Morgan's broad and very naked back that greeted him.

John blinked slowly, frowning deeply, wondering why the fuck he was in the same bed as Arthur. Until the last forty-eight hours slammed back into his mind with alarming clarity-

**THUD!**

John froze.

Brown eyes now wide in the dark, he waited for more sounds.

For that had come from the cave entrance...

John Marston cast his eyes over to their only horse and saw Old Boy nervously pawing at the ground. The sounds of something moving about on the rocks outside continued to echo off the concave walls and John wasn't taking any chances. He didn't want to shoot a dog, but he couldn't risk the law finding them here. Morgan was too vulnerable. Marston looked over at a peacefully sleeping Arthur and then back to the sounds of something, _or someone_ , moving just outside their cave. Being the outlaw closer to the edge of the sleeping platform, he slowly slipped out of the black furs, careful not to startle Arthur awake.

Naked as the day he was born and shuddering violently at the sharp drop in temperature, John nipped quickly over to his gun belt and made his way to the cave entrance on high alert. So focused; he didn't even think to clothe himself, as skinny limbs started to shake erratically from the freezing air. He cocked his pistol as best and quietly as he could, as a continuous wet and flapping sound echoed in the small opening to the cave. He quickly stepped out, hair on his arms erect and pointed his gun at eye level to....nothing. Frowning in confusion, teeth chattering in the mist, he kept his gun up high and moved further outside until he found the source of all the commotion.

There on the rocky floor was a small blue gill, flapping around pathetically and gasping it's last.

"What the hell?-"

A large salmon dropped onto John's head with a cold squelch.

**"AHH!"**

"...Is it them fish, again?" Arthur's voice drawled from inside.

John breathed heavily with misty breaths as he stared dumbfounded at the two fish jumping about all over the place near his numb feet. Marston growled as panic was subdued at the false alarm and from knowing that smug chuckle in Arthur's voice was not on accident.

"I said food falls from above," Arthur wheezed with a wide grin of teeth from the furs, turning his head up to laugh at John.

Marston almost pouted in anger, but kept himself in check as he stomped back, shivering violently. Trust some dumb ass fish falling off the waterfall above to spoil his morning-

Arthur continued to chortle.

John Marston, with the greatest of wills, ignored the mirth at his expense coming from the bed, as he returned with the two gasping creatures, intending on dispatching them. But first he needed to stop freezing his ass off. John threw the fish onto the floor, grabbed the blanket from his vacant bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. He turned to deal with their soon-to-be-breakfast, but Arthur sat up, grabbed one out of his hands and used the butt of his pistol to give the salmon a good whack, "There," he said, flopping back down and dropping his gun and dead fish to the floor.

"I could have done it," John protested, picking up the discarded revolver and putting it back into it's holster.

"Yeah well," Arthur sighed, as John made quick work of the blue gill, "Gotta do somethin' to know I ain't a complete invalid just yet."

John picked up the still salmon and nearest piece of clothing, watching the other outlaw trying to get comfortable on his side again. He moved over to the fire, setting the fish on sticks over the flames to slowly roast and pulled the large shirt on without thinking under the blanket. Eagerly settling down at the fire, he stopped when he saw red dried patches upon his clothes. Shit, no wait... he'd picked up Arthur's summer shirt by accident. No wonder it had felt too big for him. Where was his own red union suite? Morbid curiosity got to John and he carefully studied the blotches, seeing something akin to dried semen crusting over a cuff. John quickly took the shirt off in self-disgust and hunted for his own clothes. But he quickly realized they were in bed with Arthur. Not wanting to wake the man, who'd fallen back to sleep, John gave up. He quickly washed himself down from last night and put on his third set of clothes stored on Old Boy. Yanking them on as fast as he could, to keep in the heat, as a damp Marston pulled the suspenders up over a black shirt, watching as his horse munched on an offered apple-

Arthur whined low.

John clenched his teeth at the sound with a deep frown. Damn it, why couldn't Arthur stop moaning?

John hated himself when it dawned that he might be the reason. For he hadn't exactly been gentle with Arthur last night. But didn't the man say it came in waves, _that_ pain? Judging by the way Morgan was fussing in his sleep, it seemed Arthur's hips and lower back were the real culprits.

John rolled part of his bottom lip between his teeth in thought. Being on the rag couldn't be _that_ bad, could it? Abigail never complained this much, or any of the other women in camp, come to think of it. But then again, he wasn't around them long enough to know all the details and, quite frankly, John didn't want to know. Was a woman's business and their business alone, Uncle had said once, when Abigail had near screamed at John to get her new linen from town. And he liked it that way; not getting involved. Even when he had to begrudgingly spend some of his hard stolen wealth on feminine products to shut Roberts up.

So when he had found out about Arthur...fuck, it still messed with his head that the man suffered from the same condition. That something so odd for a bodily function in general, to John's mind, could periodically bring down an outlaw like Arthur Morgan. Seeing the elder man out of action from a gun fight, brawl or over-use of the bottle made more sense to John. Hell, he had seen Morgan more down and out due to those reasons than any other. So when it fully hit him that Arthur was not exempt from sharing what Abigail would go through...shit.

John had no idea how _he'd_ cope with it.

Arthur curled up into a ball, moving the furs up with a hand and nuzzled his head into them with a soft sigh, accidentally drawing John's attention. Marston felt his frown melt as he saw the pinched agony across Arthur's forehead.

Maybe it was because Arthur looked every bit like some rugged man of the mountains. Hell, he drank, fought and swore with the best of them. He even had a beard at one point, for Christ's sake. Arthur had never really cared when John had brought up the subject, for he'd joke how it took a real man to fuck another. Women? They were these soft and docile things, he had said half jokingly, seeing Tilly Jackson within ear's shot. Not much to write home about sleeping with one, what with all their _whining_ and _nagging_. (He'd gotten a playful clip round the ear from Tilly for that)

But John had damn well seen the way Arthur would drop everything for the mere rumor that Mary Linton had sent him a letter. Just what that woman had over the man was lost on John. He admitted he had a soft spot for Abigail, but the way Morgan near worshiped Mrs Linton? That was something else and John wasn't sure he liked it. He started to wonder how Mary would deal with Arthur when he was like this...

John looked back to the fish as they crackled in the heat and an idea came to him. It had worked for Abigail when her belly had ached so...perhaps...?

Marston got up and moved purposely around the cave, collecting a couple of choice large pebbles, the smoother the better. He plopped them near the fire and waited, wrapping a thick blanket around his shoulders to keep the cold out.

The fire crackled, the fish cooked and Arthur grunted a few more times in his sleep. Couple of curses leaving his lips signaled he was awake but he kept silent. Until John's quietness got his interest and Arthur cracked an eye open.

"...the hell you up too?"

Marston ignored him.

Arthur, his interested piqued, watched as John carefully pulled smooth rocks out of the fire with a stick and held his hand over one, as if testing.

John, feeling confident the stones were the right temperature, carefully rolled them onto a thin deer hide, balling them up and tying a knot.

Arthur watched, still highly intrigued, as John moved over to him.

"Here, try this," John said, leaning over Arthur's side and placing the small and hot package against the small of Arthur's back, under the furs.

Warmth seeped into his skin and Arthur was genuinely surprised as the pain in his pelvis and back began to ease almost instantly. Shit, he'd never thought to do that before...

"Thanks, Marston...," Arthur said in near shock.

"John," the younger said meeting those eyes, "Marston was my father."

"John," Arthur smiled.

The dark haired outlaw felt his cheeks reddening and awkwardly moved back to the fire to check on their breakfast, shoving the desire to have Arthur all over again away from his imagination.

It was an hour later, with fish ready to eat, that Morgan roused for all the good it did him. After a quick half-assed wash from last night's activities, Arthur unceremoniously dragged the pelts from the bed with one hand to the floor and near collapsed onto them next to John, with a thump of heavy limbs meeting ground.

John paused as they ate, loving that Arthur wanted to be near him but it was gone in a flash as soon as Morgan finished his breakfast and ordered John to clean up his damn mess.

"Why do I have to do it?" John protested, quickly glancing to the stained and messy sleeping platform.

"You started it," Arthur shot as best he could, sitting hunched over and chucking salmon gristle into the flames.

John scowled, knowing it was annoyingly true that he had initiated their first sexual encounter. Both times now or no, wait, wasn't Arthur the one to do so last night? Either way, John stood up and took care of cleaning the bed, before going back to scrubbing that blue summer shirt in the water, kneading soap into it to rid any blood or semen off. When he had finished and it was drying by the fire, he began checking the handsome haul next to where Arthur was now lying on the cave floor, resting on his side across a large elk hide. A proud knot settled in John's chest when he saw Arthur readjusting the package of hot rocks, holding it securely under his abdomen.

John scooted closer, sitting cross legged with a knee pressing accidentally into Arthur's thigh. What they had 'acquired' from those folk in the coach was currently in three piles; his and Arthur's share along with the gang's cut. Couple of bags of jewellery, several pocket watches, three gold nuggets and a fountain pen with ink. Not to mention, after a recount; around six hundred and thirty eight dollars of cold, hard cash-

Arthur moaned with a curse as he got up and John scowled, watching as the man got to his feet with great difficulty and dug out that small tin again from his satchel.

"Why don't you go and lye in your damn bed?" he shot at the man next to him when Arthur heaved himself down to sitting with a wince.

"Why don't you mind your own damn business," Arthur had growled, not looking at him.

John turned his head away, securing the valuables in a leather bag, intending to ignore the other cowboy. But he couldn't help himself. John watched from the corner of his eye as Morgan pinched some green spindly herbs from the small tin and dropped them into his coffee mug, settling the pot of cold water John had collected earlier near the fire. John suddenly felt ill at what Arthur was doing. Or rather, _why_. He knew that herb, for Abigail drank it after she worked. Pregnancy was dangerous, she had said to him. Too many working girls she knew had had a brush with it, with some passing away while giving birth to unwanted children of patrons. Not to mention being with child could end her main source of income. If that was the case then...shit, what would it do to Arthur Morgan and the life they lead?

Desperately searching in his head for any topic to get away from the fact he might have just put Arthur in serious danger, he hit upon gold.

"So where the hell you think Micah got too?"

"Who knows...," Arthur mumbled, peeking into the mug and swirling with his wrist.

"You know, the more I think about it," John said, trying to ignore that herbal smell and how a child between them would look, "Law was on us real fast."

"Yeah, I noticed that..."

"Think they got Micah?"

"Maybe," Arthur sighed, putting the mug back onto the square metal frame, "Either way we'll find out soon enough. Least that bastard ain't getting any."

Marston nodded, seeing Arthur indicating to their haul. He coughed, feeling another uneasiness washing over him at Micah's no show. It was common knowledge that, to put it lightly, Arthur and Micah didn't get on. Or more so, Morgan would go out of his way to put Bell in his place; calling the blonde haired cowboy a coward or yellow whenever he got the chance. How Micah hadn't put a bullet in Arthur yet was probably due to Dutch's influence and Arthur's standing.

John honestly didn't know if Micah was aware of Arthur's secret but shuddered at what that bastard might do with the knowledge. For they all knew Micah's opinion on anyone with a vagina.

He still couldn't believe what Bell had done to Jenny.

Arthur had told him, while sloshed off his face after trying to strangle that smug bastard, that Dutch's newcomer had tried to force an unwanted pregnancy on the poor girl. Round the back of their camp too! John felt sick to his core as Arthur repeated the conversation he'd had with Micah and Bill prior to some other coach robbery months ago. Micah grumbling that no woman would fuck him unless he put a gun to their head, and even then Jenny had struggled. John wondered if Jenny's death wasn't as coincidental as it all seemed back at Blackwater...he missed her.

The day rolled passed with a few more surprise fish dropping into the mouth of the cave, which John spent the day drying and salting. Turned out Arthur had stashed quite a bit of rock salt at the back of the cave and the mystery of why the man kept bringing back so much fish to the camp solved itself. He would have said he got on with the task because it had to get done, after carefully making sure their robbery boon was divided up fairly (Arthur nabbed the pen for Mary-Beth) But in reality; John needed an excuse to get away from Arthur, who kept checking his coffee mug, to near obsession, with a deep frown.

The bundle of pebbles had helped but now they had worn off and Arthur Morgan was _not_ fairing well. Groaning not unlike a cow giving birth Marston had accused, until it reached a point where John couldn't take it anymore. He had offered another massage to the resting man, but Arthur had kicked out at him, telling John to keep his damn prick away. But half asleep, he had missed John and accidentally hit that metal rod over the fire with the heel of his boot.

But that wasn't the worst part.

Because still sitting on the grate had been the mug with it's contents Arthur had been preparing all day.

And it had gone tumbling merrily into the fire.

"Damn-it!" Arthur yelled, attempting to quickly grab salvation.

"What?" John shot startled.

Ignoring Marston, Arthur looked over his shoulder, shaking pain out of his fingers after having accidentally burnt them. Breathing in deep and panicked breaths, blue eyes wide at the entrance to the cave with a, "No...no, it don't grow this far north-"

"What?" John repeated louder as Arthur made to get to his feet.

"Gotta go into town, 'fore it's too late-"

"I'll go," John offered as Arthur grimaced in pain from standing too quickly.

"You won't know which ones, or worse," Arthur said, checking in his satchel, "ya'll get the wrong thing-"

"I won't," John protested with an angry bark, as distant thunder rumbled outside in the darkness. He moved to stand in front of the man, "I know that one, Abigail has it all the time-"

"-and they'll be shut by the time you get there!" Arthur finished loudly, arguing over John, pausing with a shocked expression as it slowly dawned on him what time it was. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes clenching shut. "And we can't rob 'em neither because then the goddamn law will know we're out here...shit!"

So that was that, as flashes of lightning lit up their cave.

The outlaws had to wait till morning and for the blonde, well...it wasn't long before Arthur Morgan went back to old habits in times of need. Drinking himself into a stupor most of the evening and into the early hours, with John following hot on his heels after the disaster of blazing herbs, whirlwind of worded and physical passions and now feeling sick with a multitude of worry had all set John Marston right back on edge.

But it would be fine. It would _all_ be fine, he thought fiercely to himself as the metaphorical and literal storm rolled in over their heads. They'd head out the next day, go into town with a general store and Arthur could take his herbal contraception.

No use worrying about something that might or might not happen.

And they'd ride back to camp, bounty in tow, utter heroes and gloat at how Micah missed out. Might even get Dutch to agree to open up the beer cases, if they were lucky. John chewed at his bottom lip, casting nervous glances to the other man. It was silly, he argued with himself. They hadn't been _that_ idiotic; Arthur was menstruating so that must mean the risk was low...? Fuck, he hoped it was. If his limited sex education was anything to go by.

But it soon became apparent that the wait out and close proximity, where neither man could get away from the other in the confined space, and now a damn loud thunderstorm outside were doing their heads right in.

As the hours passed, alcohol and tobacco continued to be the crutch with which Dutch's boys dealt with stress, as lightning flashed at the mouth of the cave and Old Boy had to be calmed down after one particularly loud clap.

John Marston drank from his third Kentucky Bourbon bottle nervously, as Arthur began to wheeze. John became more and more agitated the longer he watched Arthur's sides heaving as another pain in the man's back made itself known. Previously they'd tried singing some songs about whiskey, working their way up to a rousing rendition of Jack of Diamonds that had both John and Arthur laughing despite themselves; the joyful sound of their drunk voices echoing around them, stress dying out for one blissful moment. But as night rolled on, the thunder passing painfully slow, Arthur began to sweat heavily, skin pale, with eyes clenched tightly shut.

And John hated himself all over again.

"Bet you don't get all this with Abigail," a very hammered Arthur slurred into the hide below him, pressing his forehead into a thick arm, bottle in hand.

"Abigail and I ain't together enough for that," John said with a frown and a slur of his own. Sure he spent time with Abigail alone and enjoyed her company, but almost wished he never did for the moment he had said a nice word about her, people assumed they were married, "Wish people would stop saying we are."

"Yeah, she deserves a better man," Arthur teased with a grin, sweat dripping down his pinched forehead, "One that's faithful 'n understands her when _this,"_ he said with a wave to his body, "...happens."

"She ain't my woman," John angrily started with that petulant tone, "Why do folks keep sayin' that?"

John paused, seeing that mischievous glint in Arthur's very drunk and sky blue eyes.

"What, are you jealous or-"

Arthur's grin grew wider as he took a swig of whisky, never breaking eye contact.

"...or...you _sweet_ on her, Morgan?"

"Once, I was," Arthur admitted with an annoyed grunt, as clear alcohol spilled from the corner of his mouth, "But she chose you. Riled me right up, that did. Turns out I lack the equipment she needs."

"Reckon she knows?" John said, picking at the bottle's label, even though Arthur had told him ages ago who in camp was aware.

"No, but I wouldn't be surprised. She's probably noticed the teas I've drunk, not to mention how angry I get every month," Arthur said taking another very long drink, "Tilly did."

Arthur and John both fell silent.

Abigail.

Both men loved that fierce woman in their own way but...what would she think if she found out that John and Arthur had fucked? _Twice?_ Not that the woman would pass judgement over the physical act, she knew how to separate both aspects working in it herself but these feelings John, and by the state of things Arthur too, were having for each other?

This was new territory.

John felt the guilt that she had been trying to get out of providing for the camp's funds via sex work, arguing that Karen brought in more money than her in that regard. Dutch had said he didn't care how she brought in money, only that she did.

Or she could stop if she was unable to perform anymore, Hosea had added.

The idea of motherhood as a way out, risks and all, had been put into her head recently by a fellow ex-prostitute she and John had bumped into back in Blackwater, who was now living as the wife of some well to do lawman. Abigail had been trying with John and a couple of other men around camp. But at this point, John began to wonder if she could even get with child. Not that he was in any shape to become a father when he found out her ulterior motive, having stopped sleeping with her in an instant. Unless he was off his face on Scamper Juice. Again. She had argued with him why the hell he had grown cold for her touch, until the subject of Arthur spurring her advances rose to the surface. John had stormed away back then, yelling he didn't want to talk about it and to get away from accidentally blurting the truth to Roberts of why Arthur couldn't help her.

Arthur shook his head, bottle on chest as John stared off into space.

"You be a good man to her, you hear-"

"How can I when...I care for her but...," John began to voice his uncensored thoughts, which usually happened when he was drunk, "I'm not in love with her...I don't think."

Arthur turned his head with a raised eyebrow and quietly laughed, "Why? You in love with me?"

John huffed as his temper flared hot, burning inside his belly and chest. Feeling like he had been well and truly cornered. Hell if he knew! All he knew was he wanted to be next to Arthur. Be by his side come rain or shine. Wanted time with him. Wanted...wanted...wanted to do something right now before the confidence he felt from the drink abandoned him as Arthur looked away with a curse of intimate pain.

"Fuck if I know, Morgan!" John Marston shot, tossing the bottle to one side with a loud clunk. He got up and stormed over, nostrils flaring, "All I know is I'm gettin' real sick of all your _goddamn whining!"_

Arthur grunted as John leaned down and pulled at his arms.

"Now get the hell up!"

"Ahh! 'the hell you doing, John-?!"

"Taking charge for once!"

Manhandling as best he could, a very inebriated John prodded and poked an equally drunk Arthur to get up onto the sleeping platform. Literally shoving Morgan over onto his side; John then battled to get out of his own black coat, hooking with uncoordinated thumbs his suspenders off shoulders and, after slipping a couple of times, got into the furs and wrapped his skinny arms around that broad chest.

"Now shut up and sleep, Arthur!"

Arthur paused, wide eyed at what just happened. Until he couldn't hold back the laughter anymore. The sound echoing around them, his chest bouncing as he dragged in air, an arm across his forehead.

"The hell you laughing at?" John spat, the side of his head jerking with each bounce of laughter, cheek pressed against Arthur's chest.

"Greasy Johnny Marston," Arthur chuckled, nuzzling his nose into that black and lanky hair, "You've finally grown a pair."

"Hey cut that out," John complained, but let the smile creep onto his face as Arthur grinned against his skin, snaking an arm under John's neck and pulling him closer, pressing lips to that tanned forehead.

They kissed, wet and sloppy with John, unsurprisingly, climbing on top of Arthur after not too long. But they had drunk so much that, to Arthur's howl of mirth; John got whisky dick. Marston had begun to tell Arthur to fuck off as the elder outlaw laughed loudly at his delicate relations with the bottle, but never finished as he too passed out. But they slept soundly, wrapped up with each other in a haze of Kentucky Bourbon.

That was until the utterly brutal hangover nailed them both well and truly five hours later.

John Marston, headache pounding through his skull as light from the rising sun assaulted his senses, back pressed to the cold cave wall of the sleeping platform, woke to see Old Boy curiously nipping around the edge of the furs near Arthur. He squinted, struggling to see. The hell was he doing? But soon noticed the tell-tell way his horse's ears were twitching towards Arthur, whinnying curiously with nostrils flaring.

"Go on get," John said quietly, leaning over and gently pushing the animal's muzzle away from Arthur's body as the horse became too interested.

John squinted at the sun light, grateful that they could go out soon, as Old Boy clopped away, the animal throwing his head up and down with a snort. John had always wondered just why the hell Old Boy would act like this around Arthur sometimes. Turned out most of the stallions did _not_ like it when Arthur tried to pat them when he was on the rag, even after placing down their bales of hay, the ungrateful bastards. Other times they'd near mob him, tails up excitedly and nickering at the promise of food.

The mares were calmer. Until they would kick up a fuss when in heat and trying to pull a randy stallion off of one of them took the strongest; Bill, Arthur and Pearson usually. Couple of times they hadn't been quick enough and a mare would foal but for John, it had been the first time he'd learnt about the birds and the bees.

The only stallion that wouldn't react to a menstruating gang member was Arthur's own horse. The beast having probably gotten used to it, if the fact it was fine with being a decoy for blood hounds was anything to go by.

John Marston, head throbbing, smiled as Arthur began to wake, turning to face him. With a deep exhale of breath, Morgan snuggled closer, foreheads resting against one another. John reached out and brushed a thumb tenderly over that old scar across Arthur's chin.

Sensing John's question brewing, a still drowsy Arthur sighed with eyes partly open.

"Bar fight."

"Really?" John said just above a whisper, knowing that bullshit tone of Arthur's a mile away.

Arthur moved his heavy head away slightly, eyes cast down, breaking that contact with John's thumb.

"....Dutch."

"Dutch?"

Arthur quickly looked at him with clear blue eyes before turning his head away, frowning in something akin to embarrassment that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

John waited, rubbing his thumb reassuringly over a strong arm and the bite mark he'd left yesterday.

He'd always wondered how the hell Arthur had gotten that quite prominent scar. Oh, he'd seen the horrific aftermath of when Morgan acquired it years back when John was about sixteen; of a twenty six year old Arthur holding a blood splattered cloth to his chin, fire and fury in his eyes, sitting on some log in camp just across from where John was peaking out of his tent.

He'd heard someone in anguish and intended to yell at them to shut the hell up, but had paused when he saw it was Arthur. Was one of the _very_ rare times John had ever seen Arthur with tears staining his face. He had gotten off his cot to talk to him, but one of the bastard Callandar brothers had gotten there first. Just as well he hadn't, in hindsight, because upon being disturbed; Arthur had handed Mac his ass.

John had witnessed that day _exactly_ what Arthur Morgan was capable of without a gun. And it was the first time John had felt that stirring of raging want for Arthur. He'd frozen, shell shocked at how vicious Arthur had gotten. But what stuck out to him, apart from his own desires, was why, especially for one of the famously violent Callandar brothers, Mac didn't even try to fight back. The whole thing escaped young John Marston. Even when he crept out hours later to the site of the fight to see Hosea and Dutch sitting in Dutch's tent. The air was unbelievably heavy as they talked in hushed tones, brows pinched, and John saw Dutch's knuckles were bruised.

John had always found the twin brothers odd, assuming Mac was probably too fucking drunk to defend himself, as his twin brother Davey came to his rescue. It had all happened so quick, in a blur of shouting and fists with Arthur having to be manhandled off of a dazed Mac.

John remembered he hadn't seen Arthur for the next five or so months. Morgan having gotten arrested for delinquency and thrown in some out of state jail, Dutch had announced loudly to the gang. John had tried to drum up support for a party to go and break Arthur out, but Hosea had put a hand on his shoulder and oddly said it was pointless and to please drop the matter. Frustrated, John had even gone to Mac for help. But the man seemed strangely reluctant and told John to piss off, Arthur would be released soon either way. Besides, it was better Morgan had time to cool his heels before he had a chance to break Mac's other leg.

John noticed Mac wouldn't talk about Arthur at all after that.

But when Marston next saw Morgan, on the back of Hosea's horse as they both entered camp, the mouthy man John knew was gone. He was quiet, sullen and despondent, with an angry air that never escaped him. Even into his thirties. Not to mention he seemed to have lost weight where ever he was, so John assumed Sisika Penitentiary. He'd heard stories from Bill about that place and had no plans to ever set foot in that cesspit.

Arthur and Mac never worked together again and it was around this time he saw Arthur keeping a journal.

And Morgan was _fiercely_ protective of it.

Now though, a decade later, Arthur was still cagey about that night he'd gone for Mac.

"...Arthur?"

"Slept with the wrong person," Arthur mumbled reluctantly, self conscious of his chin, "... got that for my troubles."

Marston frowned.

"Them rings sure do pack a punch," Arthur tried to joke but it fell flat.

John worried his brow. Who the hell could Arthur have slept with to get Dutch so angry? John chose his words carefully as the answer came to him.

"....I heard about you and Colm."

"You did?" Arthur asked, eyes suddenly open wide at John, "Who told you?"

"Bill."

"Bill?! Oh, that bastard," Arthur winced, before he threw part of the covers off of himself in anger, like they were suffocating him, "Bet he went and told the whole goddamn camp...shit, it were only the once, I didn't even know that son of a bitch _was_ Colm! Makes me sick to think about it-"

"So Dutch did that?" John said, trying to ignore the mental image of Colm doing to Arthur what he had done several hours ago. He indicated to Arthur's chin, ignoring how cold it was without the furs on them.

"Yeah...no...I don't....," Arthur said quietly, blue eyes looking anywhere but at John.

John Marston frowned.

"It were Dutch who gave me this here marker...but...," Arthur paused, his eyes flicking to something outside before back to the furs underneath them, "It weren't due to Colm..."

John was quiet as Arthur went completely into his head and, from the pinched brow and quick eye movements, Arthur didn't like what he was seeing. John was surprised, because if it wasn't Dutch's rival that Arthur had let take him then... _who?  
_

Arthur suddenly leaned up and away, checking something under what little pelts covered their legs.

John stilled as more cold air rushed in to fill the space, with Arthur shifting his legs, until Morgan dropped the blankets with a relieved nod to himself as they saw the sun light streaming into the cave.

"Thank God. Right Marston, we best be gettin' ," Arthur said, not meeting his eyes as he sat up.

The two were quiet as they professionally packed up their equipment, weapons and stolen haul.

John burnt any food or soiled wraps that could be disposed of, leaving little evidence they were here save for their empty bottles. Arthur secured his own bags, methodically checking he had everything, strapping his rifle across a shoulder.

John reached up and shoved the thick blankets back up to where he found them two days ago and began to roll up the furs, until he paused. He checked over his shoulder and seeing the coast was clear, quickly stuffed one of the smallest, a red fox he reckoned, into a pack on Old Boy's side and the rest into that alcove with the blankets.

Arthur never saw him do it.

Morgan tipped his gambler's hat to the cave at large with a "until next time" then tipped it again, slower, to the old Nevada one that sat perched high up on the wet rocks.

"...wait, Arthur-" John said, watching as the other man gave his respects to this mysterious hat. So much had changed between them that he couldn't stand it if they went back and ignored everything that had happened out here.

"We'll talk back at camp," Arthur said firmly, not meeting his eyes, as they walked out the entrance and across the cold pool of water, "I know we won't have much privacy too but..."

"How then?" John said, leading Old Boy.

"We can...come up with a code," Arthur said, nodding thoughtfully carrying his saddle "...a password or somethin'. "

"I'll say," John said, touching the back of his hand to Arthur's arm, as they came to a stop outside of the mist, "I'm thinking of heading out in a bit."

"And I'll say I'll join you," Arthur said placing the saddle on the floor.

"Right," said the younger man with a determined nod and hint of a relieved smile.

Arthur nodded, his eyes hidden by his hat. He whistled high and shrill and, sure as hell, his horse appeared.

"Hey boah, you miss me?" Arthur smiled widely as the creature came trotting over, patting the horse on the neck. He quickly checked the animal for any injury, as John mounted up on Old Boy, the menstrual rag long gone.

"Gonna be a hell of a ride back, sure you're alright?"

"Never you mind," Arthur said, giving him a withering look as he lifted the saddle up and tied it down onto the horse, "I'm tough. You just look after that delicate _temperament_ of yours, Wolf Boy."

"Delicate?" John snorted, seeing the teasing look in Morgan's eyes, knowing the man meant his unfortunate whisky dick.

"Which you did to yourself, I migh' add. Now," Arthur said, changing topic and scratching at the new stubble on his jaw, "nearest town is Valentine. Failing that, we gotta go south, that's were the best pickin's is," then added under his breath with a mumble as he hoisted himself up onto his horse, "Last thing we need is a damn kid runnin' round camp."

John scoffed as Arthur kicked his steed to walk before he saw that weathered hat above and made a promise to himself. He'd see this thing with Arthur Morgan through to the very end, whatever it was, as he saw Morgan's strong back in that tanned jacket move away down the dirt path, Arthur humming Jack of Diamonds.

John looked up at the quiet Nevada Hat again.

He never did find out who it belonged too.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:  
> Found it interesting, while focusing on John at camp, he'd sometimes say he was riding out in a bit and Arthur would say he'd join him. Never got the option too, but as I know around five hours of extra content was removed from the game (that is heavily rumored to have been romance options with Arthur) biased plot bunnies decided to fill in the gaps.
> 
> Historical Note: Scamper Juice was slang for Whiskey in the Old West.
> 
> Cannon Note: Fish falling from the rocks by Grante Pass is surprisingly cannon, as is Arthur singing Jack of Diamonds.  
> 


	4. Printing Press

“Woo wee, you should have heard them fellas!” a drunken voice gleefully sung from across the bar, “Couple of right rabbits, they were, going at each other! Heh-heh-heh!”

“We found blood when we got up there," another next to him chimed in, voice rougher and deeper, pointing a thick finger to the assembled throng while leaning on a stack of yellow stained bounties, "meaning one of 'em is injured.”

“It were the fella being done, I'd say!" the first man quickly added to the group, "If not from the shootin', then I reckon from the pokin'!”

"Well I think," a larger man said snorting with amusement, picking up one of the fresh wanted posters, "these new and _improved_ flyers will narrow down the search, huh boys?!"

They all laughed loudly at that.

John Marston, having paused outside of the saloon door, made a face of disgust. He couldn't listen to this shit anymore. Those Bounty Hunters were in town, drinking and hollering their heads off at his and the other outlaw's expense. He and Arthur had to move before anyone with an eye line to their bounties on the counter and those scars on his face put two and two together.

John moved as silently as he could, past the Valentine Saloon, on his way to the gun store as the mirth followed him like a rabid dog.

Morgan had more or less stopped bleeding earlier that morning when they left the cave, so evading the law and their dogs theoretically should be easier, Arthur had reckoned. The ride down was alright. They were silent for most of it; John lost in his head with Morgan still whistling 'Jack O Diamonds' to himself as if he didn't have a care in the world. Even shooting dead a couple of turkeys that made the unfortunate mistake of running in front of his horse.

"Can't eat coin," Arthur had said, strapping the plump birds to the side of his saddle.

"Next time, try not to use a shotgun," John had teased, seeing the extremely poor conditions of their soon to be meals half mangled, "I wanna eat meat, not buckshot."

"Well then you try and catch somethin' ," Arthur had retorted before he grinned with a sly "Bet you can't-"

"I can," John defended, "I can catch anything I want-"

"Only thin' you're good at catchin', Johnny Boy, is the clap," Arthur barked with laughter.

"Fine!" John Marston had shouted louder. Typical of Arthur, not letting him live down that drunken summer of 91', when John had been pissing fire from a misjudged liaison in Tumbleweed, "Bet you a pack a' smokes I do!"

So of course, none so much as a bunny had caught his eye since then. Not when Arthur kept riding obnoxiously in front of him, singing at the top of his lungs, scaring the game away.

The two outlaws would have been worried that the law would hear them. But with John being stubborn as a mule and Arthur too wrapped up in his childish game, had the men ride into Valentine completely unawares of what awaited them.

For as luck would have it, when they hitched their horses and split up, Arthur heading left to the Doctor's office and John across thick layers of rancid mud and horseshit to the gun shop...that very same gang of lawmen, who had caught them having sex, decided this town was a great place to drink at.

John Marston almost froze on the spot when he heard that unmistakable accent of the man who had shouted _"there they are!"_ back in the Heartlands. He hated how that voice had been etched into his brain from the sheer shock of being caught with his and Arthur's pants down.

Arthur...

It was surreal.

No, John corrected himself. He couldn't think about how his relationship with Arthur Morgan had irrevocably changed forever. Not now. He didn't have the luxury, especially if any of those Bounty Hunters turned and saw the trademark scars on his face as he passed. He just thanked his lucky stars that none of them paid attention, or to be more precise, were too rat arsed from the bottle to care.

John lowered his head, turning it away as he walked quickly past and gratefully stepped into the weapon's shop. Hearing Arthur's chuckling knocking around in his skull that he was inept at swimming, herding and hunting, had made John decide what the very first thing he was going to buy with his share was. After carefully browsing what was on offer, he made his purchase of a varmint rifle. With money now plenty, John spent a while adding to the new weapon. Sights, a secure grip, ammo capacity and when the teller asked if he would like it carved with a picture, John knew instantly what he wanted. Waiting patiently for the clerk to finish the handle's design, he looked over his shoulder towards the Doctor's.

_I meant it, Arthur...I need you..._

_Then I'm just as 'bout as bigger fool as you._

John's breath caught in his throat.

_I'm not in love with her...I don't think..._

_Why? You in love with me?_

John breathed out, shaking his head. He couldn't stop thinking about it. All of it. And it wasn't just the physical side that gave him pause, even though that left a feeling of closeness with the other outlaw. Fornicating in their world didn't really mean much in the grand scheme of things. With Bill saying he didn't believe in attachments, Abigail making it her trade, Mac disappearing for nights at a time with whatever-her-name-was and Arthur's thing with Mary Linton?

John coughed, watching the image being etched into wood.

Morgan had not taken the news she had married another man well.

_At all_.

John faintly remembering the morning Arthur and Mac had stumbled back into camp, both worryingly worse for ware from a night out drinking like fish, trying to forget. John had remembered it because he had become oddly jealous shortly afterwards. Envious of the time those two spent together, laughing and joking around. Morgan had barely spoken to Mac before so...why now? John had spent more time with Abigail from then, trying to ignore that southern drawl howling with laughter from the other side of camp along with that Scottish prick's snorting. So why the hell had they fallen out in the end? But then, that had been the young and loose cannon Arthur. This one he had slept with was...well, different. The mood swings were still there, the anger and vile threats that made the outlaw Strauss's iron fist at loan sharking. He knew Morgan hated that part of his duties but what Dutch said, Dutch got.

And Dutch needed Arthur to go get them that money.

John turned his head away, absentmindedly watching people in town, as the scratching sounds of metal against toughened wood danced behind him, the teller continuing his work.

He knew the sway Dutch had over Arthur.

The whole gang saw Van der Linde as their charismatic leader, but to Arthur and John? He and Hosea had been the only solid parental figures in their lives.

John still remembered the almost reverent way Arthur had talked about Dutch to him when he first joined the gang aged twelve. John always found it uneasy that to the smart mouthed and cocky twenty something Arthur, Dutch was more akin to a God than substitute father. They had argued in their youth when John had ignored Dutch's words or didn't take them seriously. Arthur would say he was a fool and disloyal, to which John would spit back at least he wasn't a boot-licker or crazy.

John chuckled to himself.

That got him into more fights with Morgan than he cared to count. Anyway, it wasn't Dutch that frightened him, the man giving John free passes with his street learnt feral behavior. It was Hosea who terrified him. Especially when he'd accidentally get on the man's wrong side. He still remembered the almighty whack across the face Matthews had given him for biting the once golden boy.

John frowned with a smirk at his current events with Arthur and wondered with morbid curiosity what Hosea would do to him now.

The gunsmith blew the last flakes of wood from the gun and took his glasses off, wiping his brow of sweat, getting John's attention.

Marston was still surprised Morgan had admitted it had been a long while since he had been intimate with someone and John wondered if it had been an overnight decision or gradual-

John Marston's eyes froze as he saw two wanted posters, with portraits suspiciously like his own and Arthur's, staring out at him from behind the clerk's grey head on the shop's news board.

"That'll be twenty-five dollars, sir."

John swallowed, forcing his voice to be neutral, taking out the wad of bills.

"Sounds good."

Careful not to draw attention to himself in case those Bounty Hunters had vacated the watering hole and were waiting for him, or the teller put his glasses back on, John slung the gun over his back and left. He quickly scanned for the taller man, eager to get the hell out of town. John turned left and right, the purchase on his back butting into his spine as he searched. He almost missed that gambler's hat in the throng of people, as John saw Arthur step out of the doctor's office with a small package in hand.

John Marston, just about stopping himself from stupidly waving and drawing unwanted attention, noticed a few men were suspiciously talking in an Irish accent down the alley way between the doctor's and adjacent building. John squinted and was pretty sure they were O'Driscolls.

Great, John frowned. If the Bounty Hunters and their posters didn't get them, then Colm's men would. The hell were those boys doing here anyway?

Carefully he made his way down the wooden steps, and over the mud covered street of Valentine towards the other man, senses heightened for a shout of recognition.

But it never came.

"Could feel your eyes burnin' me through them walls, Marston," Arthur said with a lopsided grin of teeth as John came up to him, both of them turning to walk the short distance to their hitched horses, before he lowered his voice, "You saw them O'Driscolls, too?"

"Yeah," John grunted, looking over his shoulder quickly, "And them Bounty Hunters are in the saloon-"

"Bounty Hunters?"

John nodded.

"Same ones that...?"

John nodded again before checking over his shoulder.

"Saw a couple of flyers that got our mugs on 'em, too."

"Then we best get outta here," Arthur grumbled around his cocaine gum, reaching over and unhitching their horses.

They mounted up in silence before walking casually towards the church at the end of town. Checking they weren't being followed, they turned right just as a large coach pulled into town, hiding behind it.

John moved to be next to Arthur as they spotted the outskirts of town and saw the man double checking the tin, popping it open.

John saw that spindly herb again and shook his head.

"Just..," John began to say, flashes of yesterday and the day before behind his eye lids, "...it feels so damn strange."

"You're telling me!" Arthur said, eyes wide in seriousness, snapping the lid back on, "Fifty bucks for this piece of shit."

"Fifty dollars?!" John blurted, eyes wide, "For _that?!_ "

"Yeah was the only one the good Doctor had. Better than nothin' I suppose..." Arthur sniffed, stuffing it into his satchel and settling back into his saddle as they neared the edge of town.

"Jesus," John said, "no wonder Abigail never has any money."

"He had some real _strange_ sorta cover on sale, though," Arthur said as they walked towards the post office.

"A what?"

Arthur handed him a folded up piece of paper from the inside of his jacket.

John leaned over and took it, raising an eyebrow as he read with one hand. There on the flyer was an advertisement for a new type of modern birth control.

"For ya' pecker," Arthur said, spitting his spent cocaine gum out to the side, "Like a glove or somethin'."

"Sounds...strange...," John repeated, not looking convinced. He read slowly as the pamphlet promised that this here rubber item had all manner of protection from unsightly diseases and extra mouths to feed. "Can be re-used," John quoted the advert slowly before squinting up at Arthur in the sun with a pause, "...this like a sock or somethin' ?"

"Somethin', I dunno. Fella behind the counter said I could use it, were real comfortable, and my wife would love me. But at a knocked down price of only a hundred and seventy dollars, I said I'll take ma' chances," Arthur laughed, sliding a cigarette out of a packet and popping it into his mouth, "and so will she."

"So why you'd keep this?"

"Oh you know," Arthur mumbled, striking a match and lighting up, "Figured some of the women might wanna take a look, as eye watering of a price it is."

John looked back at the advertisement between his fingers.

Abigail and Karen might be interested?

Or Arthur?

"Anyway, it weren't all that bad," Arthur sniffed, the ember catching, as he gripped his reigns, "Got me a discount on that 'erb."

"Yeah?" John asked as he watched Arthur walking next to him, their horses setting the pace.

"Yep," Arthur replied, "Paid with part of your share-"

"You what?!"

Arthur smirked and tipped his hat to John.

"Much obliged."

John sat there as his horse walked along in the muck and filth, holding the birth control leaflet, with mouth partly open in an indignant frown as Arthur Morgan moved away on his horse in a quick trot. The younger outlaw, fuming that Arthur had stolen part of his share for...well, was probably deserved, but still, that was _his goddamn money!_ John stuffed the advert into his pocket roughly and pulled at the reigns on Old Boy. The brown horse snorted as John spurred his stallion to catch up, mud kicking into the air.

Getting out of town discreetly be damned, it seemed.

"ARTHUR!"

Morgan looked over his shoulder, cigarette sticking out of a mouth, to see John barrelling towards him like a bat out of hell. Arthur made a split second decision. Clenching his teeth together to keep the smoke, he kicked his horse with a loud shout of 'heyaa!' and the beast took off.

They ran out of town, John chasing after Arthur as they crossed the railroad and back out into the Heartlands.

John kept low on his horse as they reached a gallop, straw colored horse hair tickling his face as it whipped in the wind, but still he urged Old Boy to go faster as the echos of the environment around them and Granite Pass began ringing in his ears.

_You're on the rag and didn't tell me?!_

John kicked his horse to go faster.

_Only reason I'm bleeding is that I'm not foolish enough to get myself with child-_

Round a corner they stampeded, into the brush.

_What are we doing Arthur? What is this?_

"ARTHUR!" John roared at the bastard as the gap between their steeds grew.

_I don't know..._

Suddenly Arthur turned back onto the road and pulled up on his reigns. A fuming John moved up to join him, yanking on the reigns when Old Boy bayed in annoyance. When he was within range, John reached out to grab the bridle of Arthur's horse.

"Arthu-"

But John never finished for, with one hand, Arthur grabbed him by the front of his shirt, roughly pulled him across the small gap and smashed their lips together.

John could taste that deeply strong tobacco and earthy smell that was only Arthur's, as he grunted into the surprise kiss, before pulling away.

"Don't think you kissin' is gonna make me forget," John stared with a petulant frown.

"If that were true, John, I'd kiss you all day long," Arthur laughed loudly in his trademark drawl, shoving John away.

John huffed as he was shoved back, Old Boy stepping a few paces sideways from the lean of John's body. Marston tried to keep a scowl on his face as much as it wanted to slip off into an amused grin. Damn it, when did Arthur manage to pinch some of his money?

"But, fair's fair," Arthur said, "I'll pay you back-"

"No, keep it."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Well it...," John struggled to say, awkwardly not making eye contact, "...takes two to tango, I guess."

"Oh, look at you bein' all witty," Arthur said with a wry smile, leaning back in his saddle and considering John, "Careful, Marston. People might start thinkin' ya' got brains after all."

"Shut up," John smiled, looking away until his expression started to fall.

Arthur was going to ask why but he followed where John was staring behind them and cursed.

Bounty Hunters.

While not actively staring at them, were trotting along at the end of the road, laughing drunkenly among themselves and half falling off their steeds.

And they were heading straight for 'em.

"Hold up," Arthur said quietly and pulled his horse sharply to the side, "Let 'em pass."

"Are you crazy?!" John hissed.

"Very," Arthur said, tilting his head down, urging John's horse to the other side of his own. He thanked Hosea for what he was about to do, even though he hated it. Arthur quickly took off his own hat and shoved it on Marston's head roughly with John grunting quietly in surprise at the sudden action. Arthur whipped out a pipe, shoved it into his own mouth, messed up his dirty blonde hair with one hand and hunched over, squinting angrily.

"Look pissed off."

"What?"

"Look angry," Arthur whispered fiercely again.

John complied.

The hooting Bounty Hunters trotted passed, bottles still in hand, with one of 'em tipping their hat and, to Arthur and John's relief, continued on their way.

The two outlaws waited with tense shoulders, fingers discreetly near pistols until the men were out of sight and they were left alone on the open road.

John looked to him with surprised eyes from under the strong smell of leather mixed with Arthur's sweat from the gambler's hat, loving how, even though it was slightly lose, it sat well on his own head.

When the collection of white hatted men were far away enough, Arthur spat the pipe out and rolled his shoulders, neck cricking. He clocked Marston's questioning look.

"We ain't wearin' blood stained breeches," Arthur said, "...and I ain't shaved in a couple of days."

"Huh."

"Drink never...," Arthur said, reaching over and plucking the hat from John's head, "dulled a good man senses."

John snorted as Arthur shoved it back on his own head, that dark blonde hair still sticking wildly out in places.

"You quotin' Dutch now?"

Arthur smiled before he coughed awkwardly and John looked away. The subject of Dutch and the mystery of why he gave Arthur that scar pricked John's mind again. Even though he still didn't know exactly why Morgan got the mark, having mulled over Arthur's words that he had slept with the wrong person since they left the cave, John was just glad the man had confided in him anyway-

John blinked suddenly.

A stark memory of being awoken in the furs by Arthur talking in his sleep, came to John. The man having nuzzled under his chin, with a grunt of pleasure, gave John sudden pause. He wasn't sure if Arthur had been aware he had done it. Hell, John had been barely conscious at the time himself. But John knew sleep talk when heard it, the words muffled by being under. He had fully woken up soon afterwards, as Arthur twitched, a pinch in his brow instinctively told John the man was having a nightmare. He had buried his nose into that course but soft blonde hair, wrapping an arm around Arthur, reassuring him it was alright.

_It's alright, Arthur...it's alright...._

_...Jo...John..._

John Marston looked over at Arthur Morgan, who was swatting flies away from his face, as they trotted down the road.

Fucking hell, did the past two days _actually_ happen?

"Thank you," John said, hoping his husky voice didn't crack with nervousness as they began to walk, "For tellin' me... 'bout the scar."

_...John...John..._

_I'm here, Arthur, John had whispered softly.  
_

"No big drama, but," Arthur said, looking troubled, "Just, promise me you won't go shooting ya' mouth off."

"I promise," John said with a nod, knowing Arthur hated begging in any shape or form.

_...don't go...please..._

"Good," Arthur said, then leaned in, grinning that sadistic smile he saved for loan sharking, "Or I'll kill ya' and take that fancy gun you think I didn't see you buyin'. "

_I ain't goin' no where Arthur...  
_

"I'd like to see you try," John ventured, wishing with all his might to not be hearing their voices deafening him.

_...please...stay..._

"Still ain't gonna bag any dinner, Marston," Arthur snubbed, eyes burning into his core, "might as well give me them smokes now. Save yourself the embarrassment."

_...need...don't...go...  
_

John looked away with a quiet "Shut up, Morgan," trying to hide his smile until he saw it.

A male pronghorn was munching away up the hill on the other side of an oblivious Arthur.

John slowly pulled his varmint rifle from around his back, seeing the blurred figure of Arthur sit up and look around as John focused. He lifted and aimed, holding his breath, finger on the trigger and focused on the unsuspecting animal, waiting for it to move into range-

There was a loud bang and the animal's head snapped back, dropping dead to the ground.

John paused with confusion and lowered his gun to see Arthur smiling proudly, his own rifle smoking. Marston swallowed as he struggled to find a retort as the last sentence Arthur had uttered in his sleep stained his brain.

_...please...Mac...don't...don't go..._

John Marston stared up with tired eyes at that smug grin.

"You're a son of a bitch, Arthur Morgan," John growled with a snarl, pleased beyond measure that Mac Callander had fucked off years ago.

~

It was an hour later they trotted into a very hot and humid camp.

And John still hadn't shot any dinner or gotten over his simmering agitation.

"Hey! Who goes there?!" a voice of a figure demanded, holding their rifle in a tighter grip.

"Arthur!" Morgan shouted as his heavily laden horse cantered passed with the dead pronghorn across it's back,"You dumb ass!"

"And John!" Marston added in that hoarse voice of his.

"You two?" Javier shouted then laughed loudly, "Welcome back, it's been a while!"

Arthur chuckled, saluting as they trotted back into camp, seeing Flat Iron Lake framing their now home. They had been gone a while? Well, the coach robbery was only meant to have taken an afternoon, but two days later...

The two men hitched up and began to unload the food and stolen goods from the robbery and Granite Pass when the inevitable happened.

**SLAP!**

"John Marston you had me worried sick!"

John held his non scarred cheek as Abigail Roberts bellowed at him. Marston blinked back the shock and without thinking, looked to Arthur for comfort.

But Morgan shrugged and looked away, becoming suddenly _very_ interested in the turkeys and pronghorn. Even the fish stashed in his saddle bag.

Bastard.

"Abigail-" John started with a wince, knowing he was on his own.

"Don't you Abigail me," the dark haired woman scowled, "I got fixing to send Charles out lookin' for you fools!"

Arthur made his excuses and quickly darted away from the arguing couple, hefting the dead animal on a shoulder and gripping the two turkey's necks in one hand. He never did get rid of that soft spot for Abigail but was more than happy for John to take on her ire. He walked over to the main camp, John's voice shouting at the top of his lungs in reply to Abigail's screeching, and smiled when he saw the most under appreciated member of the gang.

"Hey Pearson! Got some grub for ya'," he said above the noise.

"Lovely, what do we have this time?" The jolly cook sung as he came over, brushing his hands down his stained apron.

"Oh you know," Arthur replied, flopping the dead deer onto the wooden table with a thump, along with the two birds and sack of fish, "Bit of this and a bit of that."

"Thank you, Mr Morgan," the man said with a wide smile, raising his voice to a near shout with the sounds of John and Abigail getting louder behind them, "Stew won't be long."

"Many thanks," Arthur nodded, seeing Hosea riding into camp with a troubled expression on his aged face that grew intense when he saw the young couple arguing.

Arthur Morgan paused, seeing that look in his other adoptive father's eyes. Something else was worrying the older man. Or something had happened outside of camp. Frowning, Arthur was about to step over and ask until a very red in the face John Marston storm up to his side, blocking his way and line of sight.

"Don't even ask," was all John could say, breath ragged and voice even more hoarse, chucking his own salted fish onto the table and hefting the money belt across his shoulder.

"Well, that was some welcome," Arthur said, trying not to smile, making a mental note to catch up with his adoptive father later, "It's almost as if she missed you, Marston."

John didn't reply, just gave him a fed up expression as the leader of their gang emerged from his tent.

"Boys! Welcome back," the larger than life man beamed, cigar in hand, "Both been gone a while, I hope everything went well...?"

"Smooth as could be, Dutch," Arthur said loudly, puffing up his chest as him and John made their way over to the most lavishly decorated tent in camp.

John could have laughed. Arthur was always trying to please van der Linde.

Such an ass kisser.

"I seem to remember Micah saying it was a coach robbery."

"Law had hounds," Morgan said in response to Dutch's raised eyebrow, "And Micah never showed so...we, er...took the scenic route back."

"The scenic route? Around the Heartlands?"

John was suddenly sucked into his head from the visions of what happened on those plains. The sounds-

"Well, yeah. Had to give them the run around on account of the dogs-"

_The sight of the law dog barking at them copulating-_

"-didn't wanna lead 'em back to camp."

"Fair enough, fair enough" Dutch chuckled, somewhere off in the distance.

_Easy, Marston, easy!_

"But we got a good haul" Arthur's voice said somewhere nearby.

_I meant it, Arthur.  
_

"You did?" Dutch asked faintly.

_I need you._

"Very."

_Then I'm just as 'bout a bigger fool as you._

"John...?"

_The only reason I'm bleeding is that I'm not foolish enough to get myself with child!  
_

"John?"

_Maybe if you did then we wouldn't be in this mess!_

Arthur prodded a vacant eyed John in the ribs harshly with an elbow and the young man's eyes focused back to reality, blinking rapidly in a daze.

Marston numbly handed over the saddle bag of cash to their leader.

"Excellent," Dutch almost sung, "you've both done well."

Arthur smiled, almost with shyness, at the validation and John just nodded his head, still frowning from under that dark mop of hair.

"Now, you boys get some rest, got another job tomorrow," Dutch said, moving back into his tent with the goods.

"So soon?" Arthur called and their leader nodded.

"Time waits for no man, Arthur," Dutch said, waving a finger up to the sky, "You'll like this one. Micah's idea."

"I'm sure I will," Arthur drawled sarcastically under his breath as an approaching Hosea acknowledged them both then motioned to Dutch. Both disappeared into his tent, as Arthur saw a disapproving Molly frown at them from within.

John Marston and Arthur Morgan were left standing next to each other and the tension rose unexpectedly.

Arthur looked over at his small mirror stand, scratching at the two day old scruff around his jaw. He flicked his eyes at an unmoving John next to him. He had known John long enough to know when the boy went into his head.

John stood on the spot and watched Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

Neither moved.

A shout of Pearson saying food was ready made both start and Arthur finally moved off.

Marston went to automatically follow Morgan and managed to at a few paces before Arthur turned.

"I think it's best we....," Arthur said in a low whisper, a hand up at John, "...keep to our own. For now."

John nodded and watched as Arthur left. The dark haired outlaw moved hesitantly over to his own sleeping quarters but sneakily watched from the corners of his eyes as Arthur set about shaving.

John, not wanting Morgan to catch him staring, changed direction. He took that saddle bag from off Old Boy, returned to his dark tent and did something he had been aching to do since the cave. He pulled that small pelt out and hid it under his pillow. After congratulating himself on his sneaky robbery, he ventured out and grabbed some stew, the day proceeding on as normal.

If he could just ignore those repeating memories.

He made small talk with Tilly and Charles, determined to distract himself, before feeling overwhelmed by the memories and retiring. Closing the flap to his tent, he got onto his bed and fished that pelt out.

_"Then I'm just as 'bout a bigger fool as you."_

The soft material smelt of the other man and John nuzzled his face into it, accidentally falling asleep.

John wasn't sure how long he snoozed for, but woke up to crusted and dried drool down the side of a mouth. He frowned, scrubbed it off with the back of his hand and looked down. Yep, he had drooled onto the pelt.

Damn it.

He quickly rubbed the heel of his palm against the soft down to brush it off and hit upon a hard and crusted clump matted together. He frowned and began to pick at it. He got some off and rubbed it between his thumb and finger. Dried and old blood, he reckoned. Probably from Arthur while they were-

John's chest clenched suddenly; sharply aware that he was alone.

Hastily stuffing the fox pelt back under his pillow, he stretched and stepped out of his tent, intent on searched for Abigail, pushing all thoughts of Arthur Morgan from his head. He looked at his newly stolen pocket watch and saw he'd only been out for a couple of hours. Felt longer...

Seeing the woman across the way, he made the short distance over to her. He needed her company. Needed to talk to someone. Even as angry as she'd get, she always had time for him. He muttered something akin to an apology for taking so long and offered her his portion of the stolen coach money. Her expression went from instantly annoyed, to genuinely surprised and finally pleased, if embarrassed. He paused, seeing the dark bruise above her eye. He reached a hand out and she slapped it away.

"Were it here?" John asked, knowing she still serviced a few of the gang's men when the need arose. It was rare these days, since people presumed John had laid claim, but it still happened.

"No," Abigail huffed, brow knotted, "and I ain't never going back to Saint Denis."

John nodded uncomfortably, wishing he could castrate her last customer and have Roberts stop her current form of self employment.

"Well you don't need to be doin' that no more," he said, nodding to the bag of cash.

"And when this runs out? Then what?"

"I'll think of somethin'."

"Thank you, John," she said with grateful eyes and quickly reached up, pecking him on the cheek. John smiled. He felt good providing for her, slap across the face aside. None of the other men would help her with money, aside from Hosea and Arthur, every now and again. John was still surprised Arthur was once sweet on her. She was an incredible woman, John had no qualms admitting, and would probably make one hell of a mother if she got her way. Anyway, he was happy. She didn't have to work now for a few months-

"Abigail? Sorry to interrupt, John, but...?"

They looked over and saw Hosea motioning for her. Abigail nodded and squeezed John's hand in thanks. John smiled again warmly as he watched her enter a private chat, the two walking over to the lake's shore.

John turned back to camp.

Right.

It was still morning...time to do his bit.

John Marston rolled up his black shirt sleeves, the white cuffs upturned. He put his hat on as the sun beat down and set about moving hay bales. He tried to avoid small talk with the nervous Kieran, but found they chatted anyway as they checked the horses over. It was true what Kieran said; working with horses was calming. Those echos of his and Arthur's voices were quiet now and he was pretty thankful for the rest-bite. But when he finished brushing down Old Boy, John turned to a sight that made his knees go instantly weak.

Arthur Morgan was chopping wood.

Which in and of it's self wasn't what got John's attention. It was the fact Morgan was wearing _that_ blue summer shirt, sweating equally as heavily and hefting the axe like it was nothing. He saw the dark red patch on the side where he hadn't been able to get rid of Arthur's bleed back in the cave.

John couldn't stop watching.

Morgan's face was clean shaven but still rugged, with a strongly defined jaw line, hard nose that showed signs of being broken more than a few times and, of course, that chin scar. Arthur's skin was peppered with freckles, slightly tanned from the sun, but not as tanned as his own. The elder outlaw had a few lines that had begun to show around his eyes, such was the hard life they lead. He looked weathered, rugged and John coveted every part. He watched as Arthur flicked his head to the side, a few wisps of dark blonde hair being flicked out of his eyes as he worked.

John couldn't help but stare unabashedly, breathing slowing as he felt blood start to pool below his waist-

A cough came from behind him and he turned to see Hosea walking past.

John nodded his head in greeting, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and moved without thinking towards Morgan. He saw Arthur's satchel off to the side with a wet tin half poking out.

"You..," John began, "...drunk it, yet?"

"Yep," Arthur grunted, lifting the axe up again as John Marston walked over to him, "Tasted as much like horseshit as I remember."

John watched as Arthur landed the axe back down, making firewood. Okay so, that was taken care of then...wait, why did he get the feeling that there was something more.

"That's... taken care of then?" John asked nervously.

Arthur gave him a look and shook his head.

"Gotta take another dose," Arthur said quietly, hefting the axe in his rough palms, "Wait over a day and it don't work."

"But it's been nearly three..."

"Exactly," Arthur said giving him a threatening glare from his crotch up to his face and pointedly slammed the axe down.

John quickly changed the subject.

"Think anyone recognized us from the posters back in Valentine?"

"Doubt it," Arthur said chopping the last log with a powerful strike, "More outlaws in need of being hunted 'round these parts. And they walked right passed us so..."

"Just...," John said, staring at the wood on the floor, as Arthur paused and studied him.

"What?" Arthur panted, sweat darkening that shirt under his arms and lower back.

"I got a bad feelin' about it, is all," John said, seeing Hosea and Abigail talking on the other side of camp.

For Hosea was holding something that looked like a Bounty.

"It's only wood, Marston," Arthur countered, with a straight face, "Lift with the knees and you'll be alrigh' "

John gave him a look.

Arthur reached over and smacked the back of his hand against John's chest playfully.

"You worry too much."

John could have laughed at how wrong Arthur ended up being, not half an hour later.

Sitting with Bill and Javier at the camp fire, Arthur chatted away with them while drinking his coffee (with the last dregs of herbs, getting his money's worth). They were laughing at some incredibly filthy joke when the group of gang members were joined by a very angry fourth.

“Is it true?” Abigail demanded, storming into the circle, looming above Arthur.

Bill and Javier shut their mouths.

“Depends..?” Arthur laughed with a confused scoff.

“Did...did...,” she said, trying to get the words out with an almost confused scowl on her face, fits into balls at her sides, “...did you put my John over a barrel?!”

Arthur choked on his drink, spluttering.

“Excuse me?”

“Just tell me!”

“What I...,” Arthur said bewildered, feeling the eyes of Bill and Javier upon him, “I have no idea what you're talkin' 'bout, you crazy woman-!”

“Then why the hell is he being had up for it?!”

Arthur blinked completely dazed and confused as she grabbed a folded up clipping from her skirt and shoved it into his face. He blinked, knowing it was a bounty flyer and saw an artist's impression of John. And right there, between assault, drunken violence and robbery was the accusation he had performed certain acts with one Arthur Morgan. But something wasn't right. Abigail was illiterate. So someone must have read it for her. Hoping the fact that it wasn't true (and who the hell it could have been who told her) Arthur scoffed.

“Made a mistake, obviously!" Arthur laughed, feeling his skin crawling, "You know John, he's only got eyes for you. He ain't gonna go lettin' some man poke him-”

“Bill, let me see that bounty,” Abigail said, eyes never leaving Arthur's.

“Er...," Bill mono-toned with wide eyes and Arthur looked over with a surprised face.

Bill had what?

Abigail instantly reached over and grabbed it from the brutish man's bag, as Bill yelled a protest.

Arthur held out his arm across Bill's chest, stopping the bear of a man from standing up, as Abigail studied the markings on the papers, comparing.

Bill thumped back onto the log with an angry grunt at Arthur and Abigail noticed. She double checked that the symbols were the same and smirked painfully.

“Guess they made a mistake on yours too, huh?”

Arthur snatched it from her hands and read, feeling his soul leave his body as a detached part of his brain realized John never made good on that pack of smokes.

 

**WANTED!**

**FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS**

**by the State of New Hanover.**

**ARTHUR MORGAN  
**

**Wanted for robbery, assault, looting**

**and sodomy with JOHN MARSTON.**

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Had to make a list of gang members who can and can't read for this chapter.
> 
> Cannon Note: Mac Callander's time line is altered for this fic, for instead of being with the gang at Blackwater and being captured, Mac left the gang years ago and his whereabouts are currently unknown.
> 
> History Note: Early versions of rubber condoms were around at this point in history but were incredibly expensive.  
> 


	5. Periods, Pelts n' Pens

There was a thick silence around the camp fire.

The distant neigh of one of the gang's horses and the crackling of fire wood the only sounds.

Normally Arthur Morgan would have laughed. Dismissed the accusation, as stupid as it was, and carried on his joking with the other men.

Sodomy wasn't the issue. For a few of the gang's past members had coupled up, with Bill being an open secret by this point. Not to mention Dutch's odd trust in Micah, along with the fact Van der Linde and Hosea were semi-together; each having a wife or woman to keep them, and each other, in line.

Nor was it the issue that it meant John had potentially been unfaithful, if his extremely vague relationship status with Abigail was to be believed.

But what _was_ the issue, however, was having the gang's lead enforcer dallying with Dutch's protege. Especially if this was to render either compromised. For the main clout Arthur Morgan provided behind Dutch van der Linde's gang was just that; clout. Arthur could go out and screw himself senseless, but it was to be kept out of camp, Miss Grimshaw had lectured him back in the day. Don't be breeding with the gang. Got whores for that. Besides, business and pleasure do not mix, she had continued. Dutch relied heavily on him, was he aware somewhere in that thick skull of his? Relied on his build, confidence and strength. Rest of the gang, rest of the _family_ , she had stressed, needed him at his best at all times. Lives depended on it, if the law or rival gangs were to come a-knocking. And there sure as hell weren't no use for him if he couldn't do that. So drink the fucking tea, Morgan, it's at a premium.

A cold dread filled Arthur if the real truth behind these flyers ever got back to Dutch, his chin suddenly becoming hot and itchy.

But instead of his usual bravado, Arthur Morgan blinked and made the mistake of making eye contact with Abigail Roberts. He saw the pain and confusion in her face and hated himself even more than he already did. He deserved all the hurt she could give him. He could have pushed John away. Told him, right back there on the Heartlands, to get lost. One time could _maybe_ be excused as folly, he argued. He knew Abigail. Knew the camp prostitute would have accepted it was sex for sex sake. As misguided as it was. He had to be truthful, Arthur owed her that. What him and John had done had just been a mistake. He could say that to her, no problem.

Arthur felt his mouth dry up instantly, lips warm from the hot drink.

Lie.

Lie, Morgan.

Isn't that what you're good at doing? Lying, stealing and threatening decent folk?

Lie to her face how it was a meaningless fuck.

Lie how the best nights sleep you've had in months was because John Marston was in your arms. How you've missed sharing a bed with him. His warmth. His smell. How oddly safe he makes you feel.

Lie how you've kept that dirty little secret for flamin' _years_ to yourself; of wanting Marston to take you, over and over again, until you're raw and begging for more.

And lie to her face at how unbelievably _right_ it felt to wake up with John by your side.

But most of all, you lie right now _you fucking piece of shit that you want to h-!_

But Arthur wasn't quick enough.

Abigail let out a sound of pure offense at the hesitation, snatched the mug from Arthur's hands and threw it's contents straight into his face.

Bill and Javier couldn't look away.

“You stay away from him, you hear!” she screeched at the top of her lungs and threw the tin at him as an after thought.

The metal mug hit Arthur's chest with a thud and tumbled down in-between his knees to the muddy ground below, as she stormed away. He forced himself to stay calm as warm liquid dripped down his face and onto the paper. He brought up a shell shocked hand and wiped it down his features, liquid stinging his shaven skin.

He quickly took a cursory look at his bounty to make sure it wasn't some cruel joke.

Before it dawned on him that only moments before he had been holding a _very_ hot drink.

“Woman, that could have been _scoldin_ '!” Arthur threw after her as a token retort, quickly standing up from the log. He looked down and saw his shirt was wet, jeans damp around the crotch where the tea had pebble dashed him, before he saw the two other outlaws staring at him.

“Not you as well-," Arthur drawled, looking away with a near eye-roll before fixing his glare squarely back at them, "You two seriously think I'd knock boots with Marston?”

“No,” Javier said defensively before Bill added quickly, “Then why's it on them flyers?”

“Ya' really gonna believe what the _law_ says, Williamson?” Arthur threw, “I got had up for animal cruelty last month. All because I shot a lame cow through the head, so we could eat decent, then Person used it's hide for your ungrateful ass to sit on. So no." Arthur stated, staring the men out and trying to wipe his face with his black neck scarf, "It _ain't_ true."

"So why'd they even put it on there?" Javier asked in that unique accent.

"Probably coz' we gave 'em the run around," Arthur said with a bull-shit grin he hoped was convincing, trying to will bravado into his posture as he screwed up the paper and chucked it into the fire where it belonged, "Two days they was chasing us with hounds. Two. And they sure as hell never caught us. Besides," Arthur said with that playful smirk, "Marston's so ugly, even the _tide_ wouldn't take him out."

That got a hearty howl of laughter from Bill and Javier.

Arthur's own laughter died off as he saw his target's oblivious black haired head move over to the horses from the other side of camp.

" 'sxucse me, fellas," Arthur said, not looking at his fellow gang members.

Arthur walked away and, just as he was out of sight of the camp fire, turned sharply to the right and broke into a speed walk. Scowl so deeply etched onto his face, he almost didn't see them. A second copy of his and John's bounties glared out at him from Lenny's hands as the teen read, leaning up against a barrel at Hosea's tent.

"Hey Arthur," Lenny said, with a confused frown, pushing off of the barrel and coming over, "What's this about you and Joh-"

"Nonsense!" Arthur growled loudly, snapping the papers with one hand from the nineteen year old's surprised grip. "Son of a bitch," Arthur mumbled as he took another look and yep, Marston was indeed being accused.

Arthur Morgan stomped through the small herd of camp horses, who were happily munching away on hay, the Count giving him a toss of the head in surprise. Morgan weaved himself around them, looking over his shoulder briefly. For the conversation he was about to have with John he did _not_ want to be over heard on. Just how many blimmin' people had read these damn things?

"Marston!" Arthur barked.

John's shoulders jumped before he shot the elder outlaw an annoyed, if very wary frown, putting the brush back onto Old Boy's neck.

"Morgan...?"

"You seen these?"

"Seen what?" John said with his usual petulant and hoarse tone before jerking back when paper was shoved into his face.

“We're bein' had up for sodomy!" Arthur whispered angrily, slapping the back of his hand against yellow paper.

John grabbed the bounties and flicked his eyes over them in confusion.

"Sodomy?" John asked, pausing with an incredibly bemused look.

"Yeah, Marston, sodomy," Arthur shot back in a whisper before he paused and gave John a withering look, “Please tell me you know what that is-”

“Yeah, but...but we didn't!”

“ 'course we did,” Arthur hissed back, “To them it looked it."

“But it's different," John argued, "We can explain-”

"How?"

John tilted his head at him, his eyes quickly darting to Arthur's crotch and back.

“Oh sure, I'll just go down to the sheriff's office, lift up ma' skirt and straighten this all out,” Arthur said sarcastically before snatching the bounties back, “No, of course not!”

"Erm...," a timid voice floated over to them, "...is-is everything alrigh', fellas?"

Both men stopped talking instantly as they saw an extremely nervous Kieran peeking over a horses' back at them.

Ah, shit.

"You been listenin' to us boy?!" Arthur threatened with bared teeth, turning to face the shaking ex-O'Driscoll.

Kieran cowered at the meaning with wide eyes, quickly shaking his head and scurried off out of sight.

"Goddamn it..." Arthur said, putting a hand to his head. This day just got worse and worse and had he actually lost his mind? What a foolish idea to have this conversation at camp. Didn't he just tell John, back at Granite Pass, they couldn't?

Arthur sniffed suddenly, and struggled to pin point the familiar scent. Until he looked down and remembered he had to wash. For his necktie and clothes stank of that herb he had no right drinking in the first place. And John's lack of alarm at it all added the final insult to injury.

"Kid, we ain't having this talk here!" Arthur whispered harshly, more so to himself, "Too many of thems around which can hear."

"Then let's just," John sighed, struggling with knowing that they couldn't just go out of camp without drawing suspicion, "Stop talkin' about it. Thems who read it, read it. Ain't nothin' we can do 'bout it 'cept say it ain't true. Anyway, I got us a job."

"A job?" Arthur said incredulous, "You wanna talk about a job? _Now?"_

"Yeah," John said, that calculating and eager glint in his eye when some fantasy of his looked like it was becoming reality, "Some ranch hands are bringin' a bunch of cows down to Valentine. Florida Cracker ones."

It took a moment to register but Arthur stared at him.

"You wanna herd livestock _again_ , Marston?" Arthur said, remembering the time they had herded stolen sheep together and had bickered all the way to market.

"What?" John defended, "It's good money. You know how much them pelts go for?"

"For the love of God," Arthur mumbled, annoyed beyond measure that Marston didn't seem that bothered half the camp could fucking read, "You remembered them fellas who shook us down for what, fifteen percent?"

"Eighteen," John corrected, going back to brushing the horse's blonde mane.

"You wanna do business with them a second time?!"

"No," John said with a high and mighty air, "But seein' we struck a deal with 'em once, then why not? We know we can."

Arthur studied the younger man.

"Well, don't stick your nose up too high, Marston," Arthur drawled, "might get it caught up ya' own ass."

"What's your problem, Morgan?!" John spat, pink lips forming into a snarl. Typical of Arthur; always trying to dismiss his idea for jobs or take 'em over.

"My problem?"

"Yeah!"

"My problem, John," Arthur began in an angry hiss, getting in the younger outlaw's face, "is that I just spent fifty dollars of money I don't have, on somethin' that shouldn't a' happened-"

Marston turned away, but Arthur shoved at his shoulder, forcing John to make eye contact again.

"-your woman threw it all in my face, camp knows we fucked and now sod's law dictates I gotta go buy more medicine before I need to cart ma' sorry ass _to a goddamn doctor!"_

"Then quit yappin' and go buy some!" John shot loudly, deep frown on his scarred face, hating the fact Arthur had said out loud they shouldn't have happened, "You got your share of the money. Use that!"

"I can't...," Arthur said, suddenly looking highly uncomfortable with a growl of anger.

"Why?"

"I...," Arthur said, shifting on his feet, blinking and not meeting John's eyes as he looked back to something at camp.

But John waited.

"I put it in the collection box."

Marston's mouth fell open.

"What, all of it?!"

"Call it paying for ma' sins," Arthur Morgan mumbled under his breath before dismissing it all with a wave of a hand, "and I didn't know I'd need another dose. Anyway, just gimme the money, I'll pay you back."

"I can't," John said abruptly.

"What?"

"I can't," John repeated, wondering why he wasn't berating Arthur that he had stolen his damn money in the first place, "I don't have fifty bucks."

"I saw that ledger, Marston," Arthur bit back, "I _know_ you ain't been givin' all your money to camp-"

"Because I gave it to Abigail-"

"Then get it back-"

"And tell her what?" John argued, staring Arthur Morgan right in the face, "That you need it so we don't have a kid?"

A strange atmosphere fell upon them.

"That ain't the point,-" Arthur angrily retorted, disturbed by the change in air, blue eyes anywhere but at John.

"Look," John said, also affected by the odd atmosphere and not making eye contact, "We'll do this job, you're get your money, end o' story."

With no other way around it and not entertaining the idea of stealing from camp funds, Arthur accepted defeat.

Begrudgingly.

"Fine," Arthur drawled with a deep sigh.

"Besides, you was on the rag, there ain't no real risk-" John stupidly added, turning back to brushing his horse, "Don't get why you're so riled up-"

Arthur's mood changed in an instant. He grabbed John Marston by the coat's collar with both hands and smashed him up against the nearest tree, Old Boy jerking back in a startled nicker.

"I got half a mind," Arthur sneered into John's face, "to geld ya' right here, right now, ya' stupid piece 'o shit. There's _always_ a risk-"

"So why the hell didn't you say anythin' back in that cave, huh?!"

"That were different-"

"How?!" John's hoarse voice shouted incredibly loudly, "How the hell is that different, Morgan?!"

"Because I wanted it!" Arthur snapped quickly in a hiss, shoving John hard into the tree trunk and letting go, checking over his shoulder again to see if anyone in camp, or Kieran, had heard, "And keep your voice down!"

John paused, back against the tree trunk he was now slunk against.

"You...you didn't want it the first time?"

"No, I did...I just...," Arthur said looking away, with an uncomfortable scowl.

John let a worried frown spread across his marked features. Had...had he forced Arthur?

Arthur Morgan looked back to a worried John and his expression softened at the unspoken concern.

"Hell, I'm all sorts of confused."

"You're not the only one," John murmured, moving away from the tree and gingerly picking up his discarded brush from the grass. His jumbled up feelings for Abigail and Arthur being at the fore front of his mind since they screwed in the Heartlands, not knowing where he began and they both ended. 'His Woman' hadn't confronted him about the bounties yet...but...wait, was that why Hosea wanted to talk to her?

The two outlaws were painfully silent, the distant sounds of a drunk Uncle trying to get people to play poker with him, filling the awkward air.

"This _thing_ we have, we need to keep it far away from here," Arthur stated, quickly brushing a hand out to the camp and gang members behind them, "Till we figure it out. And we need to be careful. Coz' we're playing with fire here, Marston, and I can _not_ afford ta' get burnt-"

"What fire we talking about, boys?"

John and Arthur looked up at who interrupted them.

"Not now, Micah," Arthur rumbled with a frown, showing his back to the new comer.

Great, this was _all_ they needed.

"You fellers talkin' about a job?" That sickly sly smile on the light blonde outlaw's face beaming, "Heard you shouting-"

"Yeah and one you ain't invited on," John almost spat, fully turning to the white hatted man, "And where the hell were _you_ during that stage robbery, huh?"

"I was _indisposed_ ," Micah drawled with his chin up.

"Meaning you were drunk," Arthur said, that sarcastic tone back.

"Believe what you want, cowpoke, I got us another job," Micah quickly retorted with a snort and glare of blue eyes.

"Oh really?" Arthur drawled.

"Yes, really," Micah said before he smirked, " 'less you two sodomites have a better one?'"

"Oh Jesus," Arthur bit back under his breath, looking away briefly with closed eyes. Yep, of course Micah could read.

"Whatchu' call us?" John challenged loudly, stepping closer.

"Alrigh', you know what, Micah?" Arthur said taking an authoritarian role, slamming an arm heavily across John's chest as the younger outlaw lurched forwards, "What'chu want? Unless you're fixin' for a _real_ bad time, you'd I suggest you'd better start talkin'."

Micah just laughed, backing away a couple of paces, hands up in mock surrender.

"Don't mean to offend, boys," he said with a smirk from under his white hat, "All's welcome here in Dutch's paradise. Speaking of, our leader has an announcement to make. I got us something _big_ on the horizon."

Micah clocked the toxic glare John was giving him.

"Unless you two got other pressing matters-"

"Yeah!" John blurted, budging Arthur out of the way to stand in front of the intruding outlaw, "Cattle."

"Cattle?" Micah guffawed, as Arthur watched carefully, calculating the cowboy's intent. Just how long had Bell been standing near them? "So you're taking the golden boy rustling now, Arthur?" Micah smiled, not resisting the taunt, "Sure you ain't preferring somebody else's company? You know, I heard Colm and his boys are in the next county-"

Fucking hell, Bill, couldn't he keep his mouth shut about anything?

**_"Gettouta here!"_** Arthur yelled, throwing his hand up. He almost lost what little self control he had, but managed miraculously to hold on for some reason. He watched, breathing heavily with hatred as that shit stain that was Micah Bell backed away from them both, laughing his ass off.

Arthur grunted, steadying his breathing and mentally congratulated himself on keeping his thread bare cool. Until he felt John's hand resting reassuringly between his shoulder blades. Arthur quickly shrugged it off with a grunt, rolling his shoulders and John got the message.

Such a proud man, Arthur was.

They both watched in quiet rage as Bell sauntered away back to camp.

"Bastard," John spat, betting money Micah was a goddamn hypocrite when it came to sleeping with men, "Why the hell does Dutch keep him around anyways?"

Arthur felt John's piercing stare on him and found it was oddly calming.

"Same reason he keeps any of us around, I guess," Arthur said knowing there was a lot more to it.

"You believe the rumors? 'bout him and Dutch?" John asked quietly.

"Wouldn't surprise me. Molly ain't losing her mind over nothin' ," Arthur said, for it had never been confirmed if Micah was Dutch's new fuck buddy. But most could read between the lines of how much freedom Micah enjoyed around camp and how bitter Molly was becoming.

"Come on," the elder outlaw said, indicating to the small gathering of people near Dutch's tent and John followed.

Arthur Morgan scoffed at Micah's jibe as they made their way back.

It wasn't really a secret around camp that Arthur had slept with men. John, though, now that was a new one if people started to believe that written toss. Not that anyone _really_ cared. Sure, there was gossip among the gang of who was shacking up with who, the women being main culprits of the rumor mill. But interestingly enough it was Bill who, upon learning Arthur dallied, had asked if it was true and wanted...advice. Damn it, Williamson, couldn't he keep his mouth shut about Colm? Was mortifying enough to learn Dutch and Bill had literally _seen_ what Colm had been doing to him, up against the back wall of the saloon. As incredibly brief as that encounter had been.

Arthur was brought out of his thoughts as he saw Hosea walk over to the small gathering crowd in front of Dutch's tent. He hated how Hosea would wait patiently for Dutch to return to him from his latest paramour. He'd called him an idiot for it, sayin' he wouldn't wait for anyone. But Hosea had smiled at Arthur hauntingly and asked him if he was so sure on that.

"Is...is what we got..." John asked quietly as they walked, an odd hint of nervousness to his voice, "...the same?"

Arthur looked over at the scarred faced man and felt his heart wanting to reach out.

"Dunno," Arthur grumbled, looking away instantly. He hated that he kept lying to himself of how this thing with Marston made his heart sing. Not to mention, he utterly despised how cruelly dismissive he was behaving towards John. Pride was a dangerous thing and Arthur Morgan was at it's complete mercy.

The dark blonde outlaw saw Micah, off to the right, hand something to Mary-Beth that looked suspiciously like a bounty.

"Just keep these flyers to yourself, or better yet," John heard Arthur growl, as he chucked them into the scout fire, "burn 'em."

The two men arrived at the gathering throng, couple of eyes from Lenny and Mary-Beth taking notice of how close the two were walking and John saw the sharp look Arthur gave him. Shit, just how many people saw their bounties? John moved away, trying to avoid Abigail where ever she was, when nervousness got the better of Arthur Morgan. He came to a stop outside the circle and slid out a cigarette, striking the bottom of his boot and lighting up.

"Bonds, gentlemen," Dutch began as he emerged from his lavish tent, hands up to the sky, preaching to his flock. Dark and intense eyes lighting up as they always did when a large prize was on offer.

Arthur, a smoke poking out of his teeth, squinted with one eye from under his gambler's hat. He tilted his head to the side in the strong sun as his adoptive father began talking.

" _Cornwall_ Bonds."

Arthur continued to squint in the sunlight at the edge of the gathered circle in front of Dutch's tent, chewing on the cigarette end absentmindedly. He saw Revered Swanson out the corner of his eye trying to listen nearby, wobbling about all over the place. Poor bastard, Arthur thought. Still a slave to drugs and love lost. Not that he himself hadn't leaned on the old life stopping herb to numb the pain of a broken heart-

A worrying feeling of familiarity crept over Arthur Morgan and he coughed, trying to will the image away of who once owned that mold covered hat sitting on a rock at Granite Pass.

"I know we got a couple of 'em already, but trust me, we need these ones too," Dutch purred.

Arthur sniffed. Shit, he had to buy another dose or use his emergency one. Just to make sure. Arthur knew he wasn't _that_ stupid, even if those in camp made him out to be. He'd bought the last two herbal contraceptives the Valentine doctor had, not telling John. One he had used (somewhat, thanks to Abigail) and another to keep in an emergency. He knew why. Crazy nights out on the town no longer the reason, or sleeping with John, because Arthur had bitterly accepted long ago that assault between gangs was rampant.

And he didn't just mean the shootings and beatings.

A few times he had been jumped. Pulled from his saddle by some rival gang or bounty hunter and overwhelmed. But up till that point, none had succeeded in shoving their cock into him, only fixing to rob and steal his horse.

Until a few years ago, that was.

Arthur increased the pressure in his jaw, pressing down on the cigarette, nearly biting it in two as Dutch warbled on.

The day Colm O'Driscoll would swing couldn't come fast enough after that, Dutch's own feud aside.

Ambushed under a bridge in Lemoyne and knocked out, Arthur mercifully didn't remember much of it, drifting in and out of unconsciousness. But his gut sank from what he did remember. Of O'Driscolls trying to breed him, grunting it was true what Colm had told them about Arthur Morgan.

The thirty-six year old outlaw grinned to himself that he hadn't lost any sleep over the fact he had made sure his attackers were now sun bleached vulture scats.

"Now, Micah says it's coming down from up north," Dutch continued, "under the cover of darkness. It's perfect!"

A bright yellow dress caught Morgan's eye and he looked over from under his hat to see Tilly Jackson standing by the stew pot, cup of coffee in hand as she listened to Dutch.

Arthur slowly released the pressure in his jaw.

It was Tilly who had found him afterwards. She had gone out at Dutch's orders, to find his vacant ass, and the look on her face when she found him by the side of the road...she fully knew what had happened.

"One trolley," Dutch beamed, "made to look like a mail wagon-"

Arthur sucked in a drag and exhaled, glad that he hadn't caught anything from the attack, disease or child.

John, over by the side with Charles, suddenly caught his eye, as the skinny twenty-six year old took his hat off and wiped his brow of sweat with the back of an arm.

Arthur snorted with annoyance, looking away.

Fifty goddamn bucks not to have John Marston's kid. He could have sworn that plant wasn't that expensive back in the day-

"We'll hit it up near Granite Pass," Dutch continued, "exactly like we did that one before-"

Arthur's eyes unfocused, mentally traveling the route to where the best areas of forest this little miracle plant grew, automatically avoiding that cursed bridge ever since. He could nip down there, grab a bunch and save the cash. Would take about a day and a half for the round trip if he left after Dutch's speech-

"We'll hit 'em side on, fast, steal the bonds and be out of there before Uncle Sam knew what hit. Arthur here, will be our lookout-"

Arthur looked over at John again and saw the crumpled condom advert sticking out of a back pocket. Hmm, maybe that pecker cover _would_ be cheaper in the long run, if they took leave of their senses. Again.

"Arthur, are you listening to me?"

Arthur Morgan paused, realizing he had been staring off at John.

"Sure, Dutch," Arthur smiled with a tip of a hat.

Dutch gave him a look but continued on about something to do with a taking that which was coming down from up north. Set for tomorrow and Arthur cursed. No way in hell would he be able to get back in time if he went south. Even if he left this very moment. He huffed, dropping his spent cigarette onto dirt and stubbing it out with the heel of his boot. Would have to accept it was as low as a risk as it could be. Anyway, wasn't like he hadn't been in this situation before, vaguely remembering he'd been on while some member of The Del Lobo gang scratched his itch way back in '83.

"This is a big score, gentlemen," Dutch continued to the assembled throng, "Big. Could solve all our problems-"

Arthur tilted his head in thought as Dutch continued to speak in that mesmerizing tone.

He'd been on the rag then and nothing had happened. Except when that idiot finished and, from the shouting in Spanish, Arthur guessed the fool probably thought his dick had fallen off. Arthur shook his head at himself for his own twenty year old ass had high tailed it out of those snowy woods pretty damn fast when the commotion drew in that outlaw's gang mates. Was the only time he'd dallied with the northern gang in _that_ manner. Shame, that feller had been one eager and handsome son of a bitch. Never saw him again, although Arthur remembered he had shot half a dozen of those gang members in the years since then and vaguely wondered if he had ended up putting a bullet in that bastard.

Arthur Morgan titled his head to himself, blinking, as other equally shocking memories vied for his attention. Jesus, how he had managed to escape some of the dumb shit he'd pulled back in his twenties, he'd never know. Well, except that time with Mac-

Arthur was suddenly aware everyone was staring at him expectantly.

"...yeah?" Morgan said, taking a wild stab in the dark to prove he had been listening.

"Excellent," Dutch said, nodding his head with a large smile and Arthur saw John's shoulder's slump.

Arthur's blue eyes darted between Dutch and John. Shit, what had he just agreed too?

"See you tomorrow by the horses, Morgan," Micah said with a sickening grin, walking past him as the gang dispersed.

Arthur sneered and turned, accidentally meeting disappointed dark eyes of John Marston.

"Why'd you agree to his job and not the cattle?" John asked coming up next to him.

Arthur saw the hidden hurt in John's angry eyes and made his excuses.

"Because," Arthur started with another roll of the dice, hoping the rest would follow, "...with your thing, we...we'd need more time."

Arthur hoped John was convinced.

"... I guess a train will bring in more money-"

_"A train?!"_ Arthur shouted and could have literally kicked himself.

"Yeah," Marston said, looking confused at Arthur's outburst, "Micah's train job. Weren't you listenin' ?"

"Apparently not," Arthur mumbled to himself, grabbing that condom advert from a surprised John's back pocket and walking away.

 ~

Night fell with clouds gathering over their heads.

The air was warm, the stew was filling and the drinks a-plenty.

Poker had gone on for the last three hours with Uncle utterly racking it in. No one having mentioned John and Arthur's bounties since Abigail's loud threat to the tall outlaw earlier. Neither John or Arthur had been confronted with awkward questions or jokes from others, so for now things were oddly quiet. Abigail herself wasn't around but last Arthur had heard was she had been sitting with Tilly, sewing and talking. Arthur was grateful for it, not seeing Roberts around camp and running the risk of getting a well deserved stink eye from her.

He looked down, focusing on the card game at hand. Was a well needed distraction and excuse for his cowardliness. Even if he was loosing money like it was going out of fashion as the game wore on. He bought in a borrowed dollar every time, to much swearing and hand thumping onto table. He knew why he was doing it. John was loosing just as much cash as him, even with Arthur discreetly folding and strategically betting in order to keep the younger man in.

He looked over, chuckling away. Tipsy from the incredibly strong sailor's rum, Person was sharing, and watched Marston turning his head left and right like a confused dog, figuring out if his cards were worth a dime. Arthur laughed around his premium cigarette. Damn, he forgot how much he enjoyed playing with John Marston. Especially when they drank along at the same time.

It was around one am when the poker game came to a natural end, with Lenny having busted out an hour ago and Arthur, as John, several dollars out of pocket. All participants were standing up, nursing their prides and wallets.

Except Uncle, who was several dollars richer and practically singing.

Until a distant thunder clap got their collective attentions and everyone unanimously agreed it was time to get under cover.

"Right I'm turnin' in," Arthur said, rolling his stiff shoulders as he and John were left alone.

"Come to bed with me...," John ventured in a drunken husky whisper.

"Ya' forgot already?" Arthur whispered back, hating how the rejected look in John's eyes punched his gut, "We gotta keep this away from camp, Marston."

John nodded demurely, stumbling backwards into the table.

"Woah, easy there, John-"

John shook him off as lightning flashed over the island at the end of Flat Iron Lake.

Arthur watched as an unsteady John swayed over to his dark tent and fought his way in, disappearing under the flaps. Arthur Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose and looked around. He hated how every fiber in his being was shouting at him to follow John.

No.

Hell, no.

This thing was not setting up shop in camp and he was not having that talk with Dutch ever again.

Arthur made his way over to his own tent on the other side, collapsing onto his own cot with a grunt. He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come, feeling pressure in his abdomen growing louder. He got up with a huff, making his way over to a far tree from camp to relieve his full bladder. Truth be told he was tired from the memories and flashbacks to everything that had happened in the space of three days. Only time it would shut up was when he was with John. All of them knew a train robbery was one of the most dangerous things the gang ever did. The takings were high but the risk...shit, what if he or John got shot tomorrow? If that happened...then tonight was all they had-

No, Arthur chastised himself, pulling his pants back up and fastening his belt, stomping back to his tent as the rain softly fell.

Since when the hell was he worried about John getting shot at? Aside from the obvious of not wanting to be in the first place, the worry seemed louder now. Like someone had turned up the volume-

A vivid image of John slumped over in the snow, with face torn to shreds, assaulted his senses.

No.

Keep this thing with Marston away from camp, Morgan, period.

Keep that shit far away, you know the drill. Don't need more people finding out all that happened. Don't need another scar across your chin-

Arthur felt something stabbing into his side as he got back into the cot and he reached a hand down into his tanned outer jacket. He brought the offending item out and held it up to the kerosene lamp. There, slim and shining in the light, was the fountain pen he had saved for Mary-Beth. He frowned. Goddamn those bounty hunters. What trouble they had caused by simply writing down what they _thought_ they saw. Wasn't sodomy, but still, might as well have been. Arthur scoffed as he put the pen onto the side table. Would have been cheaper for his wallet had John taken him up the ass.

John...

When the hell did things change between them? It was like the attraction had sneaked up on his unsuspecting ass and got him good. Arthur thought back as he tried to get comfortable as the wind picked up and knew when the first stirrings of things had shifted.

It was during an argument, as it always seemed to be. Before Blackwater, Arthur had gotten the itch again. Knowing that he couldn't just leave camp to deal with Aunt Flo's coming visit, he had kept a low profile, the mood swings ramping up. Until he and John had had one hell of a blow up. With John shouting at him Dutch's ferry job was safe and Arthur yelling Hosea's scam was smarter. Things descended further into Arthur shouting his head off that John might as well fuck off again and this time never come back. To which John agreed that he might as well, to spare him another minute in the presence of the waste of space that was Arthur Morgan.

Then the escape up the mountains, Abigail wanting to know where John was after two days of no-show, but by that point Arthur couldn't have cared less, still smarting from the argument and from that heavy flow between his thighs. Then he had caved, like he always did for her, found John's mauled horse and the moment he locked eyes with the injured, but still very much alive, outlaw...his heart had cried for joy. As baffling as that was. Arthur Morgan congratulated himself that he knew wolves could smell blood through clothes and being the brief decoy for an injured John had worked a wonder. Only time he had been glad for the red flow as he and Javier had made their escape with Marston on horse back.

Then Dutch had to go and spoil it all. Knowing the fight between the two outlaws was casting a dark cloud over the gang. Both Morgan and Marston had been _pissed_ when Dutch ordered Arthur to be John's carer. But Arthur had put up and shut up, carefully stitching John's irritating face, perhaps not being as gentle with the needle as he should have been, while wiping the excess blood off Marston's face and burning that rag with his own ones. He couldn't stop simmering that Dutch always put them together on jobs or something when they fought. Was his way of having them see past what ever petty argument it was by forcing them together, Hosea had told him.

Arthur fiddled with the end of his black necktie absentmindedly as he continued to stare at the top of his tent.

It was a cold morning in Colter when those hips bothered Arthur again and he had woken up with blood on the sheets. He had cursed, scrounging for what wads of cloth he could find without drawing attention, his bag being lost somewhere from the run. It was during this when a distraught Abigail had come to him for help. She had been trying to feed John, face now stitched up, but the scars made it impossible for him to chew, even with his good cheek. John had shut down, she had said, the humiliation too much that he couldn't even feed himself and needed a damn woman to do it for him.

And Abigail had begged Arthur to help.

So, knowing the soft spot he had for the woman and at the chance to rib John more on his scarred face, Arthur had nodded without thinking. When he had gotten into the room the taunting had evaporated instantly. For he took one look at that skinny frame in the cot and knew the troubled history John Marston had with food, having been half starved back in that orphanage.

He tried to get John to bite on the softest piece of flaky fish he had in his satchel, joking that this was the one time he needed him to sink his teeth into flesh. But John whined in agony. It was just too painful to chew.

An idea struck Arthur at the desperate situation.

"Well, if you can't chew ya'self," he had said, and torn off a piece of minty venison this time, chewing it. He looked around for some form of spoon, or fork to spit into and use that for John. But there was nothing. Arthur had opened up wardrobes, cupboards and even shouted over at Pearson on the other side of camp if he had some form of cutlery. But apart from the large stew ladle; the cook had left everything behind in Blackwater.

Arthur had sighed, looking at his dirty snow coated gloved fingers, for they were out of the question. He took off a glove and saw his thick yellow tobacco stained fingertips and cursed again. He couldn't risk John getting infected.

"Open your mouth."

"Huh?"

"I said open ya' damn mouth," Arthur mumbled around the chewed up pulp, and leaned over John on the cot before pausing and saying, "Don't chew, just swallow."

He had thrown all embarrassment to the wind and pressed his lips to those chapped ones, John's breath hitching. Arthur waited and Marston slowly opened up his mouth, accepting the food and Arthur used his tongue to gently press the chewed meat past teeth and into John's mouth.

"Swallow," Arthur had growled, sitting back up and John had nodded, swallowing.

Arthur ripped another part from the jerky and chewed, staring off at the fireplace and not looking at John. When ready, he leaned over and repeated. On the third time, their tongues accidentally touched. Times there after, Arthur harbored the suspicion it wasn't so accidental on John's part.

Arthur had tried with all his might to ignore how erotic it had been or how slick he felt himself getting at the time. So, agreeing John had eaten enough to not starve, he stood up to rid himself of the feeling of John's lips on his own-

"Shit, it's freezin' in here," John had stuttered and Arthur had frozen on the spot. He closed his blue eyes and mentally argued with himself. Marston had been colder than ice when he had first gotten him out of his wolf torn clothes, with the help of Swanson, and into clean dry ones. He had seen the fallen man of God administering morphine into John's arm but apparently the effects were wearing off now. Arthur cast his eyes to the fire but the chimney had fallen in a few days ago, blocking the main vent.

John visibly shivered, a misty breath shuddering with a gasp, half his head bandaged from the wolf attack.

Goddamn it, if John was to die of hypothermia then Dutch would be more than a little ticked off.

Arthur sighed again, knowing what he had to do. For sharing a tent, bed or sleeping roll had been normal for the two outlaws for a number of years in their youth. There was nothing sexual about it, for it was all Dutch's small gang of six could afford at the time. Dutch and Hosea sharing until Bessie and Grimshaw joined. Arthur had lamented how he had been given his own tent once, when it was just him and his 'fathers'.

Until John Marston steam rolled into his life.

For the first couple weeks the boy had joined the gang, Arthur had made an error of judgment in showing kindness to the newcomer, sharing his food and blankets against the elements.

Then after it had backfired. As John would worm his way into curling up next to the oven like outlaw, under whatever blankets he could scrounge, every night. Even when Arthur kept pushing him away, yelling for him to piss off out of his tent; yanking the blankets off of the cuckoo boy.

But John had been right back in there. With Arthur only finding out when he woke up the next morning to find John curled up by his side.

Several times it had happened, trying to physically shoo John away, until Arthur got so exhausted he just gave up. Was easier than fighting the feral biting thing Hosea and Dutch had taken pity on.

Wasn't long before Arthur gained insight into why John sort his protection at night. For if it was just cold desert nights, then he could understand John's behavior. But the truth was because Marston was having night terrors. About the pervert of a man he had killed defending himself or the homesteaders fixing to string him up for the sin of being hungry. But Arthur Morgan, with his violent temper at being woken up by John twitching, had kicked him harshly out of their tent and forced him to sleep on the desert ground. Until the next morning when Arthur had woken up to a terrified Marston having pissed himself in his sleep. Morgan had given the young John a free pass then, never casting him away again.

He knew the signs of street learnt trauma all too well himself.

But God's above it had been annoying as hell the last time they had shared too-small of a tent; of a twenty one year old John Marston kneeing him in the ass in his sleep.

Old habits died hard it seemed.

So Arthur had sworn and got on with the job back at Colter.

John Marston grunted as he was shoved nearer the edge of the make shift bed as Arthur got into the cot behind him, but laid back as Morgan wrapped a heavy blue coated arm around the younger outlaw's waist, pulling him flush against a strong chest. John had whispered his thanks, his good cheek pressed against the bed and, with belly full, finally closed his eyes and slept.

Arthur had not let sleep claim him, secretly loving and hating it all for other reasons. For he held Marston close and thanked what ever miracle cards he had pulled from that deck that John had survived with nothing more than scars and a busted up jaw.

And cursed how he never wanted to let him go.

Neither said anything of the mouth-to-mouth feeding or embrace afterwards. But Arthur had a sneaky suspicion John had read more into the act than Arthur was willing to admit himself, when he caught Marston staring at him from across the camp fire at Horse Shoe Overlook chewing beef-

**CRACK!**

The rain began to suddenly hammer it down loudly and Arthur snapped himself out of his head as lighting flashed, looking over at John's tent. He continued to fiddled with the necktie between his fingers, gazing up at the tent as rain pelted it. Shit it was hot and humid tonight, even with the down pour. This storm would probably not let them rest. He hoped it didn't get any worse. Arthur settled down and closed his eyes. He waited for a while, but sleep still wouldn't come. He shifted left and right on the cot, thunder getting closer, taking off his jacket and that black neck-scarf, but still it was like sleeping in the midday desert.

And the rain was so damn _loud_.

Arthur Morgan lifted his head, hating how sweat dribbled down his forehead. Shit, he needed to cool down. He could stand in the rain. Hmm, that might do it. But at this time of night, and even in this down pour, too many nocturnal animals were knocking around and he didn't fancy stepping on a water snake.

Rain began to fall even louder and, at a crack of thunder, Arthur groaned.

What he needed to do was strip and sleep naked to cool down. But first he had to have some form of privacy. He begrudging heaved himself up on his ancient creaking cot and began yanking at the tent's rolled up sides, the floor of his tent becoming muddy.

But they didn't budge.

"Come on, ya' piece o' shit," Arthur growled but the rolled up sides were stuck fast.

Arthur Morgan huffed a breath out his nose and looked over at the golden boy's large covered tent with envy from between the downpour.

Sod it, Arthur thought bitterly, as he made his way over to the other tent, boots squelching in the mud as the rain soaked though his clothes instantly.

John owed him that pack of smokes anyway.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Apart from PCOS, I've written Arthur's character unknowingly dealing with PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder). This is similar to PMS but more sever and is thought to affect up to 5% of women of child bearing age. Signs are anger, sever irritability, mood swings, depression, anxiety and trouble sleeping. Taking artistic licenses from cannon Arthur Morgan's behavior and language used of sudden anger and nervousness I felt could be attributed to PMDD within the context of this fic.
> 
> Cannon Note: Depending on if you encounter Sonny in the swamps of Lemoyne in-game, it is highly implied that Arthur has been sexually assaulted. As Sonny is not a character in this fic, his attackers have been altered to O'Driscolls.
> 
> Further Cannon Note: If Arthur spends too long out of camp, Dutch will send someone to find him.


	6. Clemens Point

John Marston hadn't made it to his cot. Instead he punched open the tent flap, tripped on the edge of the wooden platform and fell tit over arse, smashing his face onto the boar hide that covered it.

"Ah! Son of a...," the young outlaw mumbled, nose stinging.

He sighed with a curse, empty bottle in hand rolling away off the pallet, with a soft thump onto the grass. Turning his head sideways to haphazardly check his nose, with drunken fingers, for any damage. That would be typical, wouldn't it? Scarred up face and now a bent nose. Perfect.

The twenty-six year old sighed again. Now reassured there was no lasting damage, John reached down to scratch at his itchy thigh through his dark pants where he'd been bitten by a mosquito, feeling faint claw marks where those wolves had gotten him. He scratched at his upper arm next, a dent where a bullet from the ferry job had struck him. Had taken a devil of a time to get it out...

_"You know, if you keep that up, Marston," Arthur had chuckled, re-wrapping the bandage just above John's elbow, where some guard in Blackwater had managed to shoot him, "ya' gonna have more holes than me."_

"Hnn, shut up, Morgan," John mumbled into the boar hide, frowning at the teasing in his head, as rain began to fall onto his dark green tent softly. That had happened the day after the shocking moment Arthur had pressed his mouth to his own, trying to get some grub in him. The injured outlaw had not been ready for how Arthur's lips tasted.

In the slightest.

Sure, he had drempt about them; pressing gently to his throat, roughly against the scars on his cheek and, usually while masturbating with a generous amount of gun oil, locked tightly around his cock. What he didn't anticipate was for Arthur Morgan to taste like chewed up venison.

At first.

But then a deep and earthy taste, that might as well have been his own brand of opium, had seeped through the flavor of deer and into John's very core.

Stunned in the moment, it took everything in him to understand why the hell Arthur Morgan was _kissing_ him. But soon it turned into the real understanding of trying to get him to open up his mouth, as painful as the stitching was. As much as he wished Morgan's actions were secretly affection driven, he knew it was far from it. The annoyed look in Arthur's face said everything, after each pass of food. Not starting to chew the next mouthful until he had seen John swallow the previous. Just had to get some sustenance into his skinny body _somehow_ and keep him warm _somehow_ by locking lips and pressing their bodies together. _  
_

But then the Heartlands and Granite Pass had happened.

Rain continued to fall gently against the tent, thunder rumbling in the distance, and John blinked, feeling his body buzzing with alcohol and the empty warmth of longing.

Before the Heartlands, John had been revisiting that moment in Colter _very_ frequently. When he slept in his own tent at Horse Shoe Overlook, palming himself off and whispering Arthur's name into his pillow as if it was an illegal secret he had to keep from the gang. It was like the taste of Arthur had opened up a tidal wave of desire within in him and John Marston couldn't swim against it.

But now John could say he'd fucked Arthur Morgan.

Twice.

An impressive upgrade from a quick wank in the dark.

And it was all because Micah had told him about a dumb coach robbery that would be completely unguarded. Well, fat load of good that was, John frowned into the boar hide. The stage had no less than six bounty hunters traveling with it. And hounds. Friggin' blood hounds.

For some odd reason.

That was the one part that didn't make sense to John Marston. Why a coach with a couple of rich suckers in it had needed such security to travel with. And even then, the Bounty Hunters had been a ways behind the coach. Sure, it could have been coincidence and not connected. Or from an overly worrisome traveler clutching purse strings, over doing it on safety but...those were _blood_ hounds.

And John couldn't get the coincidence out of his head that Arthur had been in full flow at the time.

The younger outlaw breathed in a shaking breath and out again harshly, his alcoholic breath assaulting his senses. He scowled that the grumpy outlaw hadn't mentioned he was on the rag, for he would have backed off and gotten Lenny or Charles to help him run the job. But Arthur Morgan was nothing if not proud, not wanting to miss out on a job or be seen as a weak link.

John paused mid thought as he heard footsteps, seeing a figure move out into the forest. Definitely Arthur from the shape of the shadow. Probably gone to piss.

Things could have gone very differently, John mused as the shadow vanished. For when Marston had proposed the job to the older outlaw, the man had given him one of his _long_ looks of scorn from under that gambler's hat. Feeling pissed Arthur was just gonna fob him off, as usual, John had got it in his mind to get Arthur up and moving by verbally assaulting him with how good this job was. The older man had been moping around camp, hunched over at the camp fire, feeling sorry for himself or sleeping like some depressed dog. Arthur had finally agreed, growling it was more or less to shut that husky voice the hell up...and mumbling quietly he supposed it was his duty as one of the gang's men to secure funds. For Dutch had been lecturing him on his tardiness of bagging camp funds this past week.

Then Arthur had to go and overhear Micah complaining that the dark blonde outlaw was too goddamn _lazy_ to rob a coach, in front of Dutch, and that did it.

John breathed in again as his world swayed from the bottle, wondering if Arthur would be any different if he had a dick, before John scoffed. Nothing would have changed. Arthur would still be moody as hell. Only one time had he shouted the word 'dickless' at him and Arthur had roared with laughter at John. But the times Colm's men would shout 'cock sucker' at Arthur, when they came into conflict, was uncanny. And John had wondered if there was some sliver of truth to it, knowing Arthur Morgan.

Either way, Arthur was Arthur as far as he was concerned. The grumpy, rugged as hell, hard-arsed crazy and stupidly handsome bastard, who was terrified of large lizards and laughed way too much at himself, which held Marston's desires to ransom. It was maddening, for John's dick seemed to have made a decision all on it's own volition.

Speaking of which...

John shifted uncomfortably as he felt himself becoming hard against the hide and wooden pallets under him and rolled onto his side.

_"Mr Marston, Mr Marston...!"_

_"Reverend?"_

_"I...I need to tell you something...troubling..."_

John closed his eyes against the dark tent as the memory of seven years ago began to play behind his eyelids.

_"What is it?" John Marston sighed, trying to shovel Pearson's gumbo stew into his mouth.  
_

_Reverend Swanson, high off his nut and heavily drunk to boot from the smell of things, stumbled over to him and grabbed both his skinny nineteen year old shoulders. John didn't offer to help steady the priest, who had joined them only last winter.  
_

_"I think...," a shaking Swanson muttered, eyes wide, "Mr Morgan...has been...bewitched..."_

_"Bewitched?" John said with a snort around his full mouth, "The hell you on 'bout?"  
_

_Reverend Swanson flapped his hand backwards and forwards limply for John to come closer._

_But John didn't.  
_

_"John, he..."_

_"He...?"  
_

_"Has no... **unmentionables**..."_

_John had squinted in confusion before he got the meaning and laughed around the bulge of food in one cheek.  
_

_"You're drunk, man," John said, swallowing and hefting another portion onto his spoon, "go sleep it off."_

_He had continued to chuckle, before he paused and turned to watch Swanson, over his shoulder. The priest hiccuped and headed off towards his own sleep roll, babbling about he ain't never seen a man without. Ignoring the insane ranting and returning to his meal, John shook his head. Until a frowning Arthur came over to the camp fire, adjusting his belt.  
_

_"Who was that?" Arthur asked.  
_

_"Reverend Swanson, I think."_

_"Oh, so that's who it was. Nearly shot the bastard. Tell 'im not to go near where I'm havin' a slash," Arthur said, nicking a hot carrot from John's plate and popping it into his mouth, "Crazy fool could have gotten the shock of his life. Right after I shot him."_

John had shaken his head again and eaten his food but Reverend Swanson and Arthur's own odd words stuck with him.

It wouldn't be for another couple of months until John's insane suspicions gained traction.

From a bounty poster, ironically of all things, considering the last twenty four hours. Because Arthur's bounties in New Austin, and New Austin only, would always have 'Vagrancy' listed first in large letters under Arthur's mugshot. More times than stealing, drunken violence or anything else the nefarious Arthur Morgan got up too. John had seen all their sketched portraits on that wall by the sheriff's office and none of the other men had it.

Just Arthur Morgan.

Wanted for Aggravated Vagrancy.

He had asked Hosea what the hell that meant and Matthews had shrugged, saying it was a loose term to call anyone as pissing off the law as much as Morgan did. The old con man didn't answer _why_ it was just on Arthur's though-

Blue eyes full of affection, soft touches and electric kisses in black furs, with the warmth of Arthur Morgan curled around his body, played softly in John Marston's mind suddenly.

Fuck, he missed Arthur so much it physically hurt his chest.

Or, maybe it was the sharp gap in the plank pressing through his shirt.

John Marston rubbed his reddening face into the grey fur with a drunken mumble, pretending it was one from that very same cave. Texture wasn't as soft, but still, he pretended. The thought gave him a thrill that began at his throat and raced down to his crotch, setting his blood alight along the way. He slotted a hand down to his hard member, between the cloth of his pants and skin, gripping and stroking himself slowly. Memories of Arthur moaning in ecstasy under him echoed in John's skull and he felt himself harden more.

It increased further when he remembered Arthur had given him this very same hide as a present when he turned twenty.

Rain began to pound the tent, like a round of applause from an invisible audience.

_Why, you in love with me?_

God, the memories wouldn't stop but they were softer now in John's mind, of simply resting next to each other. Reaching out and knowing the other was there. And that they felt safe enough to allow the vulnerability.

Was he in love with Arthur?

John started to laugh into the hide with that wheezy voice of his at how insane it all was and how he damn well knew the answer.

He reached up to his cot, laughter tapering off, and pulled the stolen red fox pelt, he had stashed under the mattress, down to his face. The dark haired outlaw got comfy, and pressed the side of his head into that soft fur. Christ, it smelt _fantastic-_ _  
_

**CRASH!**

Lightning flashed nearby, shadows long in his tent.

Damn it, he wished Arthur had agreed to come to bed with him as John smeared pre-cum over the head of his dick with a thumb, breathing deeply, remembering the hot feeling of entering Arthur-

Wet, splashing footsteps and a dark shadow approached his tent.

John stilled instantly, blinking his way to sobriety.

He knew that silhouette...

Marston's drunken eyes snapped down to his hand around his dick, then to the pelt next to his face and panicked. Desperately he ripped his uncoordinated hand away from his crotch, catching a finger in his fly, and stuffed the pelt under the boar hide. He poked it with slim fingers between the gaps in the pallet, and moved his body to cover the lump as he saw Arthur's figure pass by. What he didn't expect was for the man to enter, just as John turned back to face the intruder.

John went to open his mouth but stopped as he saw a very wet Arthur Morgan shake his dirty blonde head of rain and, not looking at the other outlaw, began pulling wet clothes off.

John Marston was frozen, as Arthur stripped as if he was alone. Pulling his drenched summer shirt off with both hands across his chest and dumping it over a couple of wooden crates with a wet slop. He slipped the suspenders off, pants going too, and John had to force himself to blink.

Did...did Arthur know he was in here?

Wait, maybe this wasn't real. He had hit his head on the pallet...was he dreaming and in fact still knocked out?

Either way, he wasn't looking away for all the money in the world. He stared, blinking back the booze, at that wet body in the darkness. Rain droplets caressing tough skin, catching the light off the dimmed kerosene lamp, on Morgan's muscular body and falling in rivers down his front and sides. John lost his voice as he studied. He'd seen Arthur naked before, wasn't anything new. More so since it was out in the open between them.

But now...

Arthur rolled his shoulders, sighing finally at being free of soaking clothes, smiling at the cooler air and John could have sworn his heart stopped several times in the last few seconds. He watched one large drop of water travel down from one of Arthur's broad shoulders, down a defined collar bone, into chest hair and down his thick but narrow waist and hips, slowly falling across a flat stomach and all the way down a dusky line of hair, sinking into a darker thatch...

John began to feel incredibly dizzy with lust when he knew exactly what lay beyond.

Or maybe it was the heat and several Kentucky bourbons he'd necked during poker earlier.

Arthur Morgan shook his head, his semi-long hair flicking droplets out before he motioned for John to scooch over. But John, in his lust and booze induced stupor, didn't budge. Arthur kicked him behind the knees and the younger outlaw moved with a grunt that sounded too close to a whine for Arthur's liking. The elder outlaw heaved himself down and flopped his heavy self onto the boar hide, wooden pallet underneath creaking.

John's drunken eyes were wide in the dark as a very naked Arthur bedded down next to him, the outlaw scratching under an arm and yawning, not paying any attention to his silent tent fellow.

The rain began to hammer it down on the tent's roof louder. Thunder cracked again and John startled as light flashed off to the side. Memories of the storm over the cave sneaking up on his drunken ass. John Marston would like to say he wouldn't pester Arthur, lying naked next to him, respecting his personal space.

But there was just one problem.

Everyone around camp had two sides; sober and drunk. Some becoming angry, like Bill. Some becoming philosophical, like Pearson. Others sobbing their hearts out or being high on life after hitting the bottle.

And then there was John Marston.

"Quit gawking, ya' seen it all before," Arthur mumbled, eyes closed.

"Can't stop thinkin' about ya'...," John wheezed and reached over to touch that tempting thatch-

Arthur shoved the invading hand away with a grunt of annoyance, eyes still closed.

"What?" John shot selfishly in a harsh whisper, the drink ruling his head, "my company ain't good enough for you anymore?"

"I said I _ain't_ Abigail," Arthur warned, feeling himself become slick from the brief touch, "and I sure as hell ain't Karen. Now, lemme sleep."

"Fine," John spat, before his approach shifted and that hoarse voice came closer, "But I wanna know somethin'..."

Arthur grunted, a breath being forced out of him as John leaned his full body weight on to his damp chest. The blonde outlaw opened his eyes with an angry frown, staring off into the ceiling of the tent, almost flinching as John moved his face down too close to his own, hot breath of alcohol tickling his stubbled face.

"Ya' ever get slick," John breathed in a husky whisper, giving Arthur his best seductive come-hither eyes, "...think'n of me?"

"Sure," Arthur said with a humorous grin, giving in and making eye contact, "You keep givin' me that look and a litre of gun oil should do it, I reckon."

John shoved at Arthur's shoulder halfheartedly with a huff at being thwarted.

That made the corner of Arthur's mouth twitch up, closing his eyes again.

"Can't blame me for tryin'," John grumbled in a whisper at the rebuff, "Can't stop thinkin'... 'bout you... 'bout us...makin' love-"

"We fucked," Arthur cut him off, wrestling with himself it was just that damn itch causing all this trouble that he needed to stop scratching so badly, "You've fucked. I've fucked. We've both fucked a lot of people. Ain't much to it."

"You more than me," John said, knowing he could count the amount of people he's slept with on one hand. With Arthur, using all the digits of the Van der Linde gang wouldn't come close, he'd bet.

"Trust me, you ain't missing out," Arthur said, vaguely remembering most of his liaisons had been disappointing. Only twice had it really meant anything, and one of them he hated to admit to himself was with Greasy Johnny Marston.

"Sure as hell didn't feel like a quick fuck, from the way yous was kissin' me n' sayin' all those things," John continued to whine, "We made love, Arthur. Ain't no other way I sees it."

"You couldn't make love," Arthur shot back, opening his eyes fully and locking them onto drunken ones in the dark, knowing he was being manipulated, "If ya' life depended on it, Marston."

John suddenly began to laugh in this trademark raspy wheeze, falling to the side as the wooden pallet creaked.

"...haha, aah...you wanna bet, Arthur Morgan?"

Arthur saw the bait clear as day.

"Nah, I ain't fallin' for that one," Arthur grinned slowly, "You must think I was born yesterday."

John snorted, getting the message and went to move to the cot and give the other man space, but Arthur grabbed him by the arm.

"Now," Arthur started in that commanding tone, "Come 'ere and stop bein' a fool."

John continued to chortle quietly in that hoarse laugh, as he bedded down next to the outlaw.

Arthur pushed the intense guilt of his mentioning of Abigail and the worry if she, or anyone, was to see them like this. He looked over and saw the tent was tightly shut. No one was getting in and he really didn't fancy more coffee being thrown into his face. Besides, the gang knew they had shared a tent countless times before and nothing was gonna happen.

Bounty posters be damned.

Arthur looked around at the wooden crates, as John got comfortable, and dragged Marston's black coat over his upper thighs. Could never be too careful that no one was going to peek in. He'd speak to Abigail tomorrow and clear all this nonsense up. As long as he and John kept this...what ever... away from camp and Bounty Hunters, then no harm. Besides, he argued to himself, John and Abigail were just friends and he knew John wasn't sleeping with her anymore, for John didn't fancy the idea of fatherhood anytime soon.

Arthur couldn't blame him.

_"Did...did...did you put my John over a barrel?"_

Morgan struggled to ignore her use of the word 'my'.

The two sweating outlaws didn't cuddle up, the humid heat was too great for that for one thing. But Arthur had not moved his hand when John's own brushed against it, resting his knuckles on calloused fingers.

**CRASH!**

Arthur jerked awake blinking furiously, grabbing onto the coat over his crotch automatically. He snapped his head left and right for the intruder and smoking gun as white light flashed outside, but saw nothing. Only the gently swaying dark shadow of the Clemens Point tree, sat in the middle of camp, the roaring of the thunder and wind still echoing.

"Jesus," Arthur mumbled and rubbed his eyes, sighing. How long had he been out? He checked John's pocket watch in the coat and saw it had been only half an hour. He prayed this tent would hold as the sides snapped intermittently and began to mentally locate the guide lines and how to secure them further, until a loud snore came from his left.

John Marston was on his front, shoulder length black hair splayed out and snoring his head off, the bottle having fully got to him.

Arthur huffed a chuckle and shook his head before frowning.

Damn the rain was loud, how the hell was the bastard sleeping through this? How was anyone? Concern bubbled in his belly and Arthur slowly rose to sitting, crawling on hands and knees to the edge of the tent flap. He peeked out and saw all tents in camp had the sides down, no one had been left out in the rain, eyes trying to find a passed out Uncle under the tree.

"Haha! Ain't this a blast!" Uncle's voice cackled from a far away tent, "But this ain't nothing like the ones in Sumatra-"

"Shut up, ya' bastard!" Bill Williamson shouted, "We don't care!"

"Hey, no need to be rude-"

"Damn it all, I can't sleep with this storm and ya' belly achin'- "

"Then go sleep out in the rain, Marion, you wet blanket-"

"Will you two shut up! God, if I ever gotta share a tent with you fools again, all the talkin' and fartin'-"

"Hey, he started it, not me!"

Arthur's stomach rumbled as Bill, Uncle and now Lenny argued, having taken emergency shelter in the same tent it seemed. Arthur laughed to himself as he returned the flap down and secured it.

"Bunch of fools," he mumbled to himself, still chuckling, but suddenly a hot and painful jolt ran through his stomach and Arthur remembered not one piece of food had passed his lips since this morning.

Morgan made his way back over the wooden pallet as careful as he could, John still snoring. He reached over to his satchel on the side, hunting for his provisions and ignoring the prick of concern that John might have another one of his 'waking fits' later.

Ever since the wolf attack, where John had received a proper shiner, courtesy of his horse kicking him in the face, before being devoured by wolves, the young outlaw's sleep had never been the same. True, Arthur thought, the night terrors of past trauma were less these days. And even though he'd joke that John was the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he had ever met...Marston had not escaped the consequences of being struck in the head. For too much alcohol would see Marston rolling the dice on if he was to wake up paralyzed, seeing God knows what horrors, for a good ten minutes. Arthur was just pleased it hadn't happened back at Granite Pass. Or more accurately, he was glad they both were far too drunk to worry in the first place. He chuckled to himself how John was not so lucky when it came to Whisky Dick.

The younger man snorted himself awake and cracked an eye open, watching Arthur Morgan grinning to himself around his food.

"Ya know," John's mouth mumbled against the fur in his sleep as Arthur chewed, the rain still heavy outside. "I still rememberin' you feedin' me, back in Colter."

"So do I," Arthur said, handing him the rest of the dried jerky automatically, "Surprised ya didn't bite my tongue off."

John scoffed as he took the jerky and slid it into his own mouth. It was a habit between them, sharing food. Arthur would always offer his to John and visa versa. Was no longer needed now, but still, old habits died hard for when Arthur had found out the young outlaw's issue with food, the elder had made it his mission to put some muscle on him. Teaching the younger man to hunt, fish, make a fire; all the practical skills for the wilderness. While Hosea and Dutch taught him to read, scam and shoot.

And as for swimming...they had all tried.

But now, both wide awake, lying next to each other without touching, the storm continued above their heads, sides of the tent dripping with water.

Swallowing his late night dinner, Arthur scooted to sit up and grabbed that journal from his satchel, careful to keep anything he wanted dry off of the ground. Arthur yawned and absentmindedly flicked through its pages to a new one.

John chewed slowly as he heard scribbling and saw Arthur writing, his interest peaking. He watched as Arthur's hard face squinted in the dim light, and John tried to etch to memory the profile of Arthur Morgan. Heavy brow, thick lips and small nicks, where their rough life had marked him, over his nose and jaw. Arthur's hair was starting to get long, dark golden strands falling over his cheek bones. He watched as Arthur scratched at fresh stubble, frowning in consideration at what he was writing or drawing.

He envied how Arthur could get a five o'clock shadow at three.

"Ya' draw me at all?"

"Sure," Arthur said with a bored tone, not looking up from the paper. At John's lack of a response, he turned his blonde head to see an expectant look, and going against his gut instinct, Arthur found a page and moved to show a sleepy Marston.

"Hey, ya' don't make me look half bad," John mumbled with a smile, pushing black and limp hair out of his face as he evaluated the portrait in the low light of the lamp.

"Ya' passed out here, John," Arthur laughed, throwing a finger to the image, "Wait till I draw that scarred mug a' yours in all it's glory. Would make this here paper blush-'"

"Reckon?"

" 'course," Arthur scoffed with a large smile without thinking until he realized what he'd done as John looked up at him.

Arthur quickly shut the book with a frown and slid it back into his satchel, throwing it onto the cot on the other side of John, safely away from any potential water damage.

The thunder cracked again in the silence between the two men and they both gazed up.

"Horses alright, you reckon?" John asked randomly, feeling he knew where this was going if he played his cards right.

"Can't hear anything over this storm-"

"Neither can anyone else."

Both outlaws slowly looked down at each other, seeking to know if the other was aware of the option that now presented itself to them. The storm would pass and there wouldn't be another chance.

But in the middle of _fucking camp?_

"Shit, Marston, we ain't doin' this," Arthur grumbled after a very pregnant pause, hating how he had hesitated and actually considered it, his gut crying out not to be a moron just as much as his chest screamed out at wanting John, "Not with Abigail across the way. It just ain't right-"

"You know Dutch slept with her, right? n' Javier?"

"So?"

"You'd say Abigail's their woman coz' of it?"

"No-"

"Then neither am I," John's hard eyes were lit up by lightning from the side of the tent. "Just because we slept together a few times, it don't mean nothing."

Arthur let the anger into his voice as he literally didn't know if John meant Abigail or him.

"Is that what this is, too?," Arthur said in a mean whisper, staring hard at the younger outlaw, flicking his finger between them. No, they were not screwing in camp with Dutch ten fucking feet away, "You tellin' me we be scratching an itch here, John, is that it?"

"No-" John said, slightly confused at the itch reference. Wait, why was Arthur getting so irritated for? Bit rich of him, wasn't it? Morgan was the king of meaningless one night stands-

"Then what the hell you tryin' to say?" Arthur growled at a scowling Marston.

Lightning flashed over head, a loud crack of thunder booming.

"That I'm not gonna take back anything I said in that cave," John said, eyes never faltering as he shot a challenging snarl at the other man, Arthur looking away with a grimace, "Are _you_?"

"No-"

"Why not?"

"Because I _am_ the bigger fool!" Arthur snapped, as rain pounded even louder, "Always have been, always will be. Everyone," Arthur growled deeply into John's face, "And I mean _everyone,_ John, that I give two shits about, they leave-"

"I won't," John felt himself say softly, but still kept that scowl plastered to his face.

"Whatchu' talkin' about," Arthur snarled, "you sure as hell _did-"_

"That were different-"

"Why?" Arthur raised his voice over the noise, "Coz this way of life didn't suit the golden boy Johnny Marston? Weren't gettin' enough praise from Dutch, huh, was that it?!"

Lightning crashed outside.

"You don't understand _shit_ , Morgan!" John said locking eyes with the elder outlaw, feeling the anger welling up and mixing with uncontrollable lust, "It ain't because of any o' that-"

"-For a whole goddamn _year!_ -" Arthur bellowed into his face, baring his teeth as the world around them narrowed.

"-Ain't you ever wondered why?!-"

" -'course!-"

"-Really wanna know why I got the hell away from you, Arthur Morgan!?-"

"-Boah, there ain't _nothin'_ will surprise me-!"

John pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and got right into Arthur's face. Knowing he was signing his own death warrant in doing so when he drunkenly let fly the following rage filled outburst.

**"Coz' I fell hard for you, ya' miserable bastard!"** John bellowed at the top of his lungs over the crash of thunder directly over their heads, " **THAT'S WHY!"**

Arthur violently grabbed John and smashed their lips together, teeth clashing, as lightning struck again nearby. The sound of the strike made the ground shake and the gang's horses shriek in terror, voices of the others shouting loudly how close that was.

But Arthur Morgan and John Marston didn't give a rat's arse.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: From general observation within my own playthroughs, when ambushed by gangs, the O'Driscolls seem to favor shouting 'cock sucker' at Arthur more than any other gang. Not sure if it's a glitch or intentional, so have added the trait into the cannon for this fic.
> 
> Language Note: There are a fair few British words that are part of Arthur's vocab in-game, so have added a couple more, such as: to have a slash = to piss
> 
> History Note: Being found not dressing as one's assigned gender was considered a crime of 'Vagrancy' in the Old West and was punishable by jail time.  
> More information: https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/trans-history-wild-west


	7. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The following chapter contains explicit sexual content from the start.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn't affectionate.

It was hard, fast and incredibly violent.

John Marston rolled with the grab and forced Arthur Morgan onto his back, pinning him against the grey hide with all the strength he possessed, as a shout went up there was fire in camp.

But it might as well have been miles away for the two warring outlaws.

Arthur bit at John's ear, getting a mouthful of greasy black hair in the process, just as Marston attacked the side of the older man's damp neck with Dutch's voice shouting off to their left to get those flames out.

The younger desperately threw his entire body weight down onto the outlaw below him, before Arthur could flip them, and clamped his teeth down at that old bite mark on Morgan's shoulder. The elder man grunted in offense and tried to roll them over. But John, knowing Morgan was physically stronger, changed tactics in a last ditch attempt to be in control as he tensed his body, desperately trying not to be flipped. He shoved a hand down Arthur's sweating body, his calloused palm dragging across that toned and flat stomach, through tight curls and found what he was looking for-

Arthur inhaled audibly, blue eyes wide in surprise before he scrunched them shut, slamming a hand down on John's wrist at his crotch, as the dark haired outlaw continued to slip a finger up inside that warm and wet embrace. John sunk his teeth into that shoulder further to keep Morgan in place, gaining the upper hand, as Arthur's head fell back onto the hide with a dull thump. Arthur's grip on that skinny wrist tightening, not to pull it away but to urge John deeper.

There was another clap of thunder, the wind and rain howling outside the tent as shouting figures ran passed.

But Arthur Morgan and John Marston never saw them.

The elder cowboy's body tensed at the invading digit, other hand sunk deep into inky strands, pulling at the roots on John's scalp to the point of bruising. The red mist of rage and lust blinding Arthur as his imminent orgasm began to render him immobilized. He began to shudder and squirm more, a slave to his body's incessant wants, as John swiftly added a second finger, then third, searching for that spot inside the outlaw to bring him to orgasm.

But it was too much for Arthur Morgan. He struggled to get away from Marston's fingers fucking him, as he felt that wave of ecstasy coming too fast, forgetting he was trying to get John onto his back.

"Ahh!" Arthur gritted out, as Marston continued, the yanking on John's locks not doing anything. So he repeated in kind.

John punched out a husky curse as Arthur bit into his bony shoulder. But Marston didn't let go, as he felt Arthur's breathing rapidly increasing, hot against his own sweating body and through a damp black shirt, knowing it was only a matter of time before Arthur completely lost his head-

Morgan willed his jaw down harder in a vice through the shirt.

"Uhnn-let-go!" John spat around hot and wet skin.

"You-first!" Arthur ground against Marston's rough black shirt collar, feeling part of the man's suspenders digging into the corner of his mouth. The two of them at an impasse, both pulling and pushing until their limbs were entangled and locked at the mutual force.

"Christ-you're-soaking-," John said, curling his fingers, feeling slick dribbling down his knuckles as spit from his own mouth coated Arthur's skin.

"Ya'-started-it-," Arthur ground out nearly illegible, "so-finish!" 

And John Marston didn't need telling twice. He used his free hand to shove his suspenders off and grab blindly and wildly down at his belt between their sandwiched bodies. Finally pulling himself free, he lined their hips up and used his knees to keep Arthur's thighs separated. He didn't give Morgan the chance to get comfortable as he pulled out his drenched fingers, guided himself into position and, with one snap of his hips, John penetrated deeply.

Arthur loudly bellowed, letting go of Marston's shoulder, but John slammed a hand across the elder outlaw's mouth. Arthur's muffled yelps in time to John's thrusting the only sounds within the small confines of the tent, with nostrils flared and eyes pinched shut. The roll of their hips sped Morgan's orgasm to it's completion, just as a crack of thunder echoed directly above them as Arthur came, numbly hearing Hosea outside shouting the rain was putting the fire out, so leave it be-

Suddenly the elder outlaw began to climax again and Arthur had no idea what was happening. Only that his second orgasm was upon him before he knew it, washing over his body, wave after wave, and Arthur Morgan couldn't fight against it when the third one hit him like a freight train. Only moan helplessly against John's palm as his body gave into base desires.

Arthur chanced opening his eyes as John cried out, the waves of pleasure taking them both over. The world heavily blurred from the sweat in Arthur's eyes, watching with a cool detached part of his mind the top of the tent jerk in and out of focus in time to Marston's thrusts. John's voice in his right ear moaning in rasped pleasure and it was as if they were back on those damn Heartlands again.

John's other hand came up, from keeping their hips together, reaching and sunk into damp blonde hair at Morgan's scalp. John dug his nails in, pulling at the roots sharply and it was the oddly brief jolt to Arthur's brain to the reality of what was happening.

Arthur, needing to take control and fucking breathe, took a page out of John Marston's book of grappling. He tilted his head up sharply, breaking John's grip on him, and bit down hard on the thin skin between thumb and forefinger.

Marston cried out with a muffled and angry shout against his shoulder. He jerked his hand away, along with his mouth, as Arthur gasped for air, the taller cowboy's shoulder smarting at finally being set free.

But Arthur's multiple orgasms wouldn't stop. Scared at how this had never happened before, and gasping for air with a dizzy mind, Arthur slammed his hands down onto tanned hips, wrestling to get control of himself.

However, the bite had given John a slap to the face at what he was doing, seeing hints of blood on his palm. He slowed his thrusting, drunken eyes wide. He went to pull out, mortified-

"Oh no you don't-!" Arthur ground out through clenched teeth, as he fought to not drown within his own lust, feeling himself helplessly rising to another powerful climax. He selfishly grabbed Marston's ass and pulled him back in deep as the storm outside rumbled on.

John Marston grit his teeth, sweat drenched black hair swaying backwards and forwards into his eyes as he fought with himself as they continued to fuck. Through his still drunken world, he knew only one thing mattered. He gave in at Arthur's command and consent, hoping the sounds of the loud rain upon the tent would hide any sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. He didn't fight it when Morgan took over, the dynamic between them resetting to Morgan being in power.

Arthur held John flush against his body, an arm securely around his lower back, nails digging into a plump ass cheek, with the other hand gripping through long black hair.

John grunted in rasps, his eyes stinging like hell and head swimming from the heat and lust. He shoved his damp forehead into Arthur's bitten shoulder as he bottomed out, delving into the outlaw below him again and again at breakneck speed, now selfishly chasing his own orgasm.

Arthur's voice faltered as all thought was wiped from his brain, only the smell, sounds and feel of John Marston within him all consuming. He came hard again, against the man's ear, feeling for the first time in his life a rush of wet between his legs and it did the trick.

John snapped his hips forcefully a few times as he too finally climaxed, feeling Arthur milking him from within. As he came, John dug his forehead down onto Arthur's shoulder further, as Arthur pressed his face into Marston's neck and black hair, muffling his own sounds of want as they both found release and passed out into blissful darkness.

~

Arthur drifted lazily between being soberly awake and floating away under blissfully ignorant slumber, throughout the humid night. Swimming between both in a warm haze. He was in no rush...can take all the time he needed...the storm was still going on...it was fine...everything was alright...even if there was a fire in camp...

...

...fire?

Arthur forced himself to focus on that thought, the cold and delayed dread of reality seeping into his warm world. He tried forcing his eyes to open, and after a few moments of fighting, he came too with three things trying to grab his attention; his inner thighs were aching like he'd been riding for days, Flat Iron Lake sounded closer that it should be and that was definitely smoke he could smell. Did someone move the camp fire?

Dutch's voice called from somewhere in his head that there was a fire in camp.

Fire.

_There was a fire in camp...!_

"Aaah..." Arthur ground out through clenched teeth and scrunched up eyes as his head throbbed sharply, going from zero to full throttle too damn fast for someone in their mid thirties. He was Dutch's strength. His most senior gun. He needed to pull himself together and neutralize the danger immediately. But...it was quiet outside. Shouldn't there be shouting if there was a blaze? Unless the problem was... in his tent?

Arthur blinked a couple of times, preparing himself and expecting to see the tent above him bathed in fierce orange but instead deep and dull green assaulted his sensibilities. He breathed heavily through his grimace, incredibly confused as...as this wasn't his sodding tent. Where the hell was he? Arthur Morgan cocked his head to the side, mentally fighting with himself that for one thing if the tent ain't on fire then...the tent ain't on fire. So why the ever loving hell did it stink in here of acidic smoke and... _sex?_

Wait.

This canvas looked suspiciously like the one which made up John Marston's tent.

Oh _no..._

"Ah, fuckin' hell," Arthur ground out, putting a hand to his exhausted face, hating himself as his pelvis screamed out in pain when he tried to move. The echo's of Dutch's voice calling to put out that fire merged with Hosea's shouting the rain was dealing with it. Where ever the hell that blaze was. Shit, how long ago was that? Why didn't he go and help?

Arthur's inner thighs ached at that very moment, reminding the cowboy of how sore they were and he knew the goddamn answer as to why.

Somewhat calm that the camp was not ablaze, Arthur Morgan began starting to painfully piece together what led him to be lying in John's tent, in his nethers and sweating like a pig in this God forsaken humidity. And the stench of sex and body odor, well...he wasn't awake enough yet to face _that._

Until he felt a small movement near him and Arthur frowned. He turned his foggy head left as now distant rain and thunder rumbled on and saw the tent's owner lying next to him.

Who was having one _hell_ of a night terror.

Feet twitching, fingers jerking and heavy breathing in short sharp jolts, gave Arthur Morgan the well needed dose of hard and solid reality to his predicament.

"...Marston?"

The dark haired outlaw didn't reply, breathing now alarmingly hard and fast, body twitching as he let out punched sounds of snorted pain, eyes rolling rapidly around under eyelids.

Arthur called again quietly, quickly looking around him and then back at the man, triple checking nothing was indeed on fire, "Hey...hey now, John..."

John's dark eye's fluttered open and his eyes wildly darted around until they fell on Arthur, who was now on his elbows, leaning over him.

"John, it's me," Arthur whispered, reaching over slowly and sliding a hand around the back curve of John's damp and hot neck, focusing his concerned blue eyes down at him, "It's Arthur."

John blinked widely, brow creased in agony, eyes glazed over.

Arthur Morgan sighed.

This would sometimes happen. Usually after hitting the bottle way too hard and fast. John would be slumbering away one minute only to have one of his waking fits the next. It was rare, but the boy would be fully awake but with a body completely paralyzed. The kick to his cheek from his old horse fleeing wolves having done the irrefutable damage.

John whimpered again, pleading at Dutch's third in command with wide eyes for help.

Arthur breathed in slowly and out sharply. He remembered the first time they knew something was wrong. When Abigail had been scared shitless by it, shaking Arthur awake from his own tent back at Horse Shoe Overlook and pulling him towards John's cot to make sure the boy wasn't going to swallow his own tongue, a small crowd gathering.

Arthur gently began kneading the tense muscles behind John's neck with his fingers.

"Shh, it's alrigh', John," Arthur whispered, gently brushing dark hair from the outlaw's face with his other hand, ignoring how sore he was between his own thighs, "it's alrigh'...I'm here..."

Arthur frowned as he saw John blink in pain.

"Hnnn...!" Marston punched out.

Arthur paused his ministrations, considering.

"Ya' jaw, again?"

John whimpered in indication, eyes wide, nostrils flared and spit dribbling from a corner in panic as he tried to breathe. Dammit, his jaw had indeed locked again. Marston's eyes flicked to his blue ones and then down at that broad chest.

"For Christ's sakes, alrigh', I hear ya'," Arthur whispered with a cruel snarl, more so at the utter stench of sex in camp that shouldn't have happened, rather than at John's condition. He slowly wrapped his large and strong arms around Marston, as the younger outlaw's sleep paralysis continued. He ever so carefully turned John onto his side in the process, supporting all his body weight with his own before whispering softly, "come 'ere. I'll keep you safe."

It took a solid ten minutes for John's body to come back under his control, lying flat across Arthur, as his chest heaved against Arthur's, until those leg muscles went slack between Arthur's own.

But Arthur didn't let go. Against his better judgement, for he was a damn prized idiot so why not go the whole hog? He softly pressed his lips to the top of Marston's head, thoughtfully nuzzling his nose tenderly into black hair and waited, whispering soothing words in his trade mark deep and southern rumble.

_"Coz I fell hard for you, ya' miserable bastard! That's why!"_

Arthur set his jaw hard as John's outburst knocked around in his skull, smashing furniture and setting the upholstery on fire. He had known John had these odd feelings towards him for a while now, just from the staring and the wanting to be close to him. Arthur wasn't thick as pig shit, he could put two and two together. What he didn't expect was that purring within his own chest, when he kept catching Marston looking at him, had now turned into a full on roar of delight that set his teeth on edge and made him _very_ uneasy.

For he wasn't the only one who had noticed...

_"Is there anything I need to be aware of, Arthur?"_

_"What?" Arthur grunted, surprised Dutch had come to a stop in front of him.  
_

_"John," Dutch said, a calm threat within that simple word, tapping his cigar off to the side.  
_

_But Arthur pretended not to know what the other man was going on about, as he took a hit of his own smoke._

_"What about 'im?" the moody outlaw mumbled around the cigarette butt sticking out from between his teeth, squinting up from where he sat on the log, gambler's hat nearly hiding his eyes from strong sunlight._

_"He keeps staring," Dutch continued, looking over his shoulder, before pointing his cigar back at Arthur, "At you."_

_"Oh that," Arthur had said, casting a glance over his shoulder to see the man in question very much not looking at them, but instead cleaning his pistols on a rock just outside of Armadillo. Arthur scratched at three day old stubble with a thumbnail as he thought, hating how he stank of stale whiskey. Desert air was never kind to hangovers, "We fought. Weren't nothin' too bad-"_

_"I recall you and Mac fighting over 'nothing too bad' ."_

_The air turned toxic._

_"Whatchu' mean by that?" Arthur replied, slowly standing and staring at his adoptive father._

_"Nothing, son," Dutch said with a smile as Morgan stared, that air suddenly relenting as fast as it appeared. But worry slithered onto Arthur's face at Van Der Linde's insinuation. Dutch patted him on the shoulder and Arthur knew all too well it was a thinly veiled warning, "Nothing at all."_

Arthur, fighting off the knowledge that Dutch was literally one tent over, kissed the side of John's forehead in what felt like shocking defiance, his protective arms never slacking from around John's body. For he hated to admit it but...the year John had vanished had been utterly heart breaking, just as much as it had been an utter shock to the system that he, Arthur Morgan; Dutch's Most Senior Gun, could feel heartache again.

Over John _goddam_ Marston.

Dutch and Hosea knew where John had gone. So there was no question as to if the boy was languishing in some prison somewhere or kidnapped and held to ransom by a rival gang. He was safe, apparently. So Arthur didn't search John out, for his own stubborn pride rallied that Marston could fuck off and stay where ever he was. He never cared for him anyway. Never. Which was a lie no matter which way he looked at it. Even at the bottom of a bottle it was still a lie. Arthur not realizing his cold rock of a heart could be so thoroughly smashed again, right after Mary had taken a sledge hammer to it.

_"Coz I fell hard for you, ya' miserable bastard! That's why!"_

Arthur lightly squeezed John, his lips still resting against that tanned forehead as that simple outburst continued to echo in his head.

Oh, it all made such idiotic sense now...but what had set John off back then? What happened? Or rather, what had John taken um bridge at to take flight for so long?

Arthur thought back and admitted to himself he had already been down this road.

They had fought.

Over a letter from Mary Linton.

John shouting Mary was just using his dumb ass, for she never truly loved him but loved another man's _dick_ , and a heavily drunk Arthur threatening for John to take it back before he did something real stupid to his skinny ass.

John never did and things escalated. Arthur didn't remember anything past that. Only that sinking feeling he had been a _mean_ drunk towards Marston and...well, something had happened for John wasn't in camp when he woke up the next day, slumped against a stump in Tall Trees, feeling sorry for himself, Mary's letter ripped and mud sodden in his grip. The gang treaded on egg shells around him for weeks. Even Dutch and Hosea had kept oddly silent-

"Shit," John exhaled suddenly as he finally was able to move, dragging his heavy head across Morgan's naked chest, and up to under his chin. "That were a bad one..."

Arthur's chin was jolted up at John's movements, mercifully jarring him from his thoughts. He smiled to himself, breathing John in.

"You okay?" Arthur whispered, still holding the outlaw tightly within the circle of his arms, a thumb softly caressing the black fabric over Marston's back.

"I think so," John said, before he swallowed thickly, flicking his eyes up to Morgan and back again, "...thanks..."

Arthur rested his chin on the crown of John's head with a pleased exhale of breath.

"Maybe lay off the bottle," Arthur murmured. He closed his blue and tired eyes as sleep took him once more, not letting John go. He justified it to himself that if John was to go twitching again then he'd be jerked awake and ready. But as Arthur fell asleep, he felt John cuddle closer, resting his head on Arthur's collar bone, mumbling something akin to an apology...

~

Three hours later the sun began to rise, with the horrendous weather long gone, and John Marston thought he had drempt it all.

That was until he woke up to the sounds of the damp and humid camp around them waking, with the barest hint of acid smoke and a heavy pressure against the side of his skull. Water softly lapping nearby. He blinked and knew that deep earthy scent coming from over his shoulder.

Arthur Morgan was softly snoring behind him, an arm wrapped loosely around his middle, the larger outlaw's naked and muscled frame flush against John's clothed back, head resting over the crock of his skinny shoulder. Oh, so that's what was pressing onto the side of his own skull, John thought, as Arthur's chin dug into his scarred cheek. He sulked, annoyed Arthur was using his head like a damn pillow-

"This sulking is becoming very tiresome!"

John Marston's eyes widened and he forgot to breathe.

"Everything's tiresome to you these days. You've barley touched me in weeks!"

John froze instantly, as he saw Dutch's shadow suddenly appear on the other side of the tent with Molly storming after him.

"What do you want from me?" Dutch's voice retorted and John held his breath until a sharp sting came from his hand and he looked down to see dried blood on the junction between thumb and finger, where Arthur had bitten him. John Marston blinked, their crotches uncomfortably hot between them. Shit, if Arthur made a sound now...!

"To be treated with some respect-" Molly cried.

Arthur grumbled with a frustrated snort and pulled John closer.

"-and affection!"

John's mind went into overdrive as Arthur's hold on him became suffocating.

"All them out there, their _laughing_ at me!" Molly's voice continued to argue, her shadow moving around the tent.

"You think this is the way to a man's affections?" Dutch yelled, rounding on her-

"Ah, shut the hell up-" Arthur began to mumble before a terrified John turned and grabbed him, frantically shoving their mouths together with wide eyes.

"Moping and pestering-," Dutch continued loudly.

Arthur looked momentarily stunned and affronted up at John on top of him-

"-all the damn day?"

"Oh I can do a lot worse than that!" Molly shouted and Arthur suddenly got the fucking message.

"Is that a threat?" Dutch roared back, "Another great way to a man's affection!"

John Marston and Arthur Morgan breathed through their noses as quietly as they could.

"Ah shut up!" Molly barked.

"Gladly!"

Both John Marston and Arthur Morgan listened and turned to watch the shadows of Molly, and then finally Dutch, leave their own tent.

The two tense outlaws both broke away with a silent sigh of relief, with Arthur closing his eyes in pain.

John for his part squinted, wishing he could take it all back. Jesus his head was pounding something fierce. John Marston blinked the daylight into his eyes and saw from where he was on hands and knees over Arthur, that the ground was covered with water, but their fur covered pallet dry as a bone. He blinked and moved his head slowly to look behind at the tent entrance and saw his black coat bobbing in the water, along with half of his books and dinner plate.

"Damn...," John breathed. He hated to see what the rest of camp looked like.

Wait, wasn't there a fire last night?

John gazed down as Arthur distracted him with a grunt seeing Morgan put a hand to his head, trying to calm down from nearly being caught. John watched the man's chest rise and fall under him, pecs defined and could almost hear Arthur's voice in his head when John had brought up the subject of his non-existent breasts.

_"What? These?" a topless Arthur had vaguely indicated to himself in the sweltering heat, bandolier across his chest and hunched over with elbows on the table, a pair of poker cards in hand. "Couple 'a cherries on an ironin' board", he had laughed around his cigar, before smacking the back of his hand against John's arm, telling him to hurry the hell up and bet before he died of old age._

John Marston smiled nervously, despite his worry and risked taking another glance at Arthur's face. John felt sick. For Arthur had briefly woken him up in the night. And had accidentally called him Mac _again_ in his sleep. Was...was Mac Callandar the person Dutch attacked Arthur for sleeping with? But that made no sense. Mac and Davey Callandar were no good bastards, and Dutch didn't give them any special treatment. For they were all part of the inner circle of the gang, with those they picked up along the way on the outside. Arthur's standing was a hell of a lot higher than Mac fucking Callandar's...so...?

Arthur let out a deep breath, palm dragging down his face, blue eyes in once wide panic, now slowly calming.

John worried his brow, worry bleeding into his gaze.

They had screwed in camp.

And Morgan was going to kick the shit out of him.

_"You think coz' Dutch and Hosea took pity on your worthless ass, that means ya' ma brother or somethin'?! You think ma' things are yours too?!"_

_A young John felt his face flare red, tears pricking his eyes as Arthur continued to yell down at him, having literally pushed him out of their shared tent and into the cold and unforgiving desert night around New Austin. He'd only been in the gang for three months but, apart from that one time Arthur had shared his food, Morgan couldn't stand the sight of him, highly territorial over not sharing his possessions, "You come into this here gang, thinking you're the dog's bollocks or the prize pony?! Coz' I sure as shit wouldn't piss on ya' if you were on fire!"  
_

John had smirked widely at that dumb idiot when Dutch had given Arthur a reprimand for the outburst. Ordering him to shovel the gang's horse shit for weeks. A thirteen year old John had crossed his arms and grinned with white teeth as Arthur got to work at their camp near the Mexican boarder. Only to dash away when Arthur feinted at him with the shovel.

Over a decade had past and Arthur still wouldn't see John as anything more than that greasy thorn in his side. No matter how much John desperately wanted and worked for his approval. But he sure as hell saw the looks of envy from the moody outlaw when ever Dutch or Hosea praised him instead.

Jealousy on Arthur Morgan was _very_ ugly.

Which made the past few days the most fucking bizarre thing John Marston had ever experienced in all his twenty six years of life.

Arthur exhaled deeply again and John paused, brought back to the present moment. If he was to be on the receiving end of Arthur Morgan's infamous rage...then what did he have to lose?

"...good mornin'," John whispered, shrewdly risking it all as he bent down and softly nuzzled the outlaw.

"Mmm, mornin'," Arthur rumbled with a smile, forgetting himself, before he hesitated. Opening up his eyes, he saw that stupid ass look John was giving him. One that he hadn't seen anyone give him in a _very_ long time. It was the look of being hopelessly smitten-

His inner thighs sharply throbbed and Morgan paused, eyes flicking to his surroundings and up at his scarred lanky haired bed fellow before that deep ache told him all he needed to know.

"Oh my Lord," Arthur cursed long and painfully with a set jaw, as the second time he realized just what they had done hit him, "tell me we didn't-!"

" 'fraid we did," John whispered nervously with an awkward smirk.

Arthur let his head fall back to the pallet with a pained exhale."Perfect," he grumbled, eyes squinting in pain. Well, huzzah for small miracles, he guessed, beyond relieved they hadn't been caught. Arthur knew he had to move. To remove himself from the incriminating situation. From John. But, damn it, he could hear camp members moving around outside and it was just too risky to be seen leaving Marston's tent now. They both had to wait. Maybe John should go first, he debated with himself, and he'd leave later once his wet clothes were dry enough. He hated how fast he was gonna go bankrupt from drinking that damn birth control-

Suddenly the scratching of a gramophone made them pause. Shit what time was it? Probably 6am, if Dutch's clock work playing of that damn thing was to be believed.

Both Arthur and John looked at each other.

They both utterly stank of sex and grime.

"So ya'...," John grasped awkwardly, his voice daring to be more than just a whisper over the music, "...gonna punch me or what?"

"Huh?"

"For forcin' ya n' nearly gettin' caught...?"

Arthur carefully watched the skinny outlaw's expression.

John was giving him a hopeful look but the hard line of his pink mouth told him Marston was bracing for the beating of his life.

"Ah, gettouta ma' face," Arthur huffed with mock anger, lazily pushing John's face away.

But Marston was more alert and rolled with the shove, ducking his head under Arthur's hand and pressing warm lips to the side of the cowboy's face, grinning that he had gotten away with it.

Arthur Morgan smiled despite himself as John Marston planted careful butterfly kisses under and by the side of his jaw. Arthur told his sane side to shut the hell up, allowing himself to simply enjoy the present moment. _Just_ for a moment. To calm down. Yes, to calm down. Take a moment. Twas only a moment. It wasn't like Dutch or Molly were about to storm into John's tent anyway.

"So," John breathed, continuing to kiss the shell of an ear, "ya' really not gonna kick the shit out of me?" 

"Oh, that I surely will do," Arthur smiled with a tired tease, "But, I migh' enjoy this for a moment..."

"For a moment?" John said, drawing back.

They gazed at one another.

"For a moment," Arthur whispered deeply, and John wasn't sure who he was talking too. "Just for a moment," Arthur repeated, eyes half lidded before he leaned up and brushed his lips to the other outlaw's ones tentatively, urging John closer.

But something was different.

Both carefully gazed at one another, from between the kisses, with soft reassuring touches. John gently pressed lips to the bite on Arthur's shoulder, as if in apology, and the older outlaw hummed against the side of John's neck, smiling into tanned skin, forgiving him in an instant.

_"Coz I fell hard for you, ya' miserable bastard! That's why!"_

The blonde outlaw drew back, holding John's face between his palms and studied, _really_ studied, the twenty-six year old's face above him. He had to know...

"Ya' really fell for me?"

John didn't miss a beat as he nodded gently.

Arthur smiled that lopsided grin that was only Arthur's, as he ran a thumb over the 'U' purple shaped bruise just under John's left eye.

Maybe... _just_ maybe...after so long...he, Arthur Morgan, could let another person get close...

John Marston leaned his head into the caress, eyes drifting shut with a soft grunt of bliss. His cheeks warmed as he slowly opened his eyes again to see Arthur gazing up at him, identical to the time up in Granite Pass.

John was so honest...Marston wanted this too...so why was he letting the old pain of a broken heart push the dark haired outlaw away...?

"n' are you...," John breathed, "...still a fool, Arthur Morgan?"

"The biggest," Arthur breathed, taking that leap of faith, reaching forwards and their lips met slowly again. Each outlaw beyond drunk on this thing between them, and neither wanting it to end as a muffled woman's voice from the gramophone continued to sing from Dutch's tent, obscuring any careless moans.

John deepened the kiss, as Arthur softly panted into it. At Morgan's gentle urging, John shifted his body and took all the cues he was given. He felt Arthur settle his legs to accommodate and, nudging at Arthur's entrance, slowly took the outlaw below him once more.

Morgan winced at the raw sting of being penetrated again so soon after their furious fuck, lightly resting his hands on John's hips, helping to steady the outlaw's pace where it wouldn't hurt with each roll of their hips. Arthur was, in all honestly, stunned this was even happening again, having Dutch almost within ear shot. But something reckless and deeply rebellious at the old man grew within him. It was incredibly potent, rightly satisfying and dangerous as hell.

And Arthur Morgan wanted more.

 _Much_ more.

Feeling the pain in his pelvis growing, Arthur suddenly used his strength to quickly and, as quietly as he could, straddle John. Determined now into setting his own goddamn pace.

John could have laughed, as he fell back onto the boar hide, his black shirt drenched with sweat as he breathed heavily. Arthur always needed to take control. Jobs or chores and now even in the bedroom? No wonder he was in charge of camp funds. John looked up at the erotic and fucking surreal sight of Arthur Morgan riding him. Chest strong, shoulders broad, thighs thick that only years of being on the back of a horse could carve. But it was upon seeing sweat dripping down that strong body above him, Arthur biting his lip to bruising, strands of dark blonde hair swaying with every movement that did it and John drove himself up. He wanted to see it. Wanted to see the amazing and crazy bastard Arthur Morgan come on his cock. He suddenly thrust up again, pulling Arthur's hips down as that warbling gramophone woman sung loudly.

"Hnn, bastard-" Arthur whispered with a smirk, wincing.

John grinned wolfishly up at him, as he dug his nails into Arthur's thick ass and continued his pace, the power dynamic shifting once again between them. Arthur closed his eyes and let John use him, the pain now manageable at this angle, his body going slack from afterglow-

Something familiar caught Arthur's attention next to John's head, peaking out from the pallet. A tiny bit of red fur that looked like...

John felt Arthur shift downwards and pull at something next to his shoulder, their hips jutting together out of sync. He looked up in time to see Arthur holding it; the stolen fox pelt, with an unreadable expression upon his stubbled face.

It wasn't long before one of Arthur Morgan's incredibly famous mood swings hit John like a ton of bricks.

"Why?" the elder outlaw growled with a furrowed brow, blue eyes slowly closing, "Why this one?"

"Wha-what?" John said, not stopping the roll of their hips, dully sensing Arthur's anger rising. He would have gotten whip lash from the sudden change in atmosphere if it weren't for the fact he was nearly at the point of orgasm.

"Answer me!" Arthur snarled, mad eyes snapping to his own and John's mind drew a lazy blank until Arthur grabbed him by the hair at the back of his skull with a fist, yanking painfully, their hips halting, "Why'd you take _this_ one?!"

John's chest heaved in quick bounces at the angle he was being held at, his neck bent backwards, forcing his hips to rise as his brain began to short circuit at the sudden change in context that was oddly erotic. He felt his dick twitch inside Arthur, the man's furious breath across his face and it was all over. He suddenly came, pressing his mouth shut in concentration, eyes tightly shut as he finished with a few sneaky jerks of his hips.

Arthur paused, frowning at what John was doing, before realizing too late. He sharply pulled himself off of John's member and yanked Marston's head back again, edge of the wooden pallet digging painfully into the back of his head.

"Ah!" John gasped, feeling his spent dick twitch again, making Arthur snarl.

Morgan, with a grunt of indignation, thrust a hand between those skinny legs, grabbed John by the balls and squeezed-

"Ah-smallest! Coz' it was the smallest-ah-ah!" John gasped at the pain, his hands flying to his crotch, desperate to pry Arthur's thick digits off.

"Ya' ever lay a hand on ma' things again, Marston," Arthur breathed into his face, hot air laced with fury, "...then I ain't hesitatin' to deal away with _these_."

And with one last painful grip, Arthur released his hold and shoved Marston's head against the side of the wooden pallet with a cruel thud, the hard edge clanging into Marston's skull.

"A-Arthur..," John whispered in pain, hands trying to relieve the agony in both his crotch and head, but it was in vain, as Morgan sharply stood up with a barely concealed wince, recovered fox pelt in hand.

Dutch seeing him be damned; Arthur Morgan pulled on his blue summer shirt haphazardly in near panic, and John almost called out, seeing smeared semen and hints of blood between Morgan's thighs. But it was of no use, before they were hidden by brown pants as the elder outlaw got the hell out of the eye of the storm that was John Marston.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: By John's own admission in-game that he heals fast, the only thing I've added that lingers from the Blackwater job and wolf attack, apart from the trademark scars, is now intermittent sleep paralysis which can be caused by head trauma. (Among the demographic that this can effect is young adults and can be compounded by too much coffee and/or alcohol. )
> 
> Also, spot the cannon camp dialogue!
> 
> British Language Note: dog's bollocks - someone who thinks they are amazing


	8. A Lesson in Fireworks

Arthur Morgan haphazardly stumbled into the outside world and was instantly blinded. He grimaced; strong sun beams shining over the trees and obnoxiously into his face. Shielding his eyes as best he could with a hand, Arthur looked down to see water lapping at his ankles. For a split second, he assumed he had gone out the wrong end of the tent and walked straight into Flat Iron Lake.

The thirty-six year old outlaw spun left and right.

"Jesus...," he mumbled at the state of their home, struggling to process the scene directly in front.

Camp was completely flooded. Wooden crates bobbed lazily about the site, with gang members moving quickly, shouting orders to each other and yanking protesting horses out of the mud. Not to mention the communal stew pot was now half submerged under a wagon, the main pile of fire wood all but sodden and Dutch's tent was leaning off at an odd angle. Flies buzzed, confusion reigned and Arthur was pretty damn sure Miss Grimshaw was having kittens by now.

But the burly outlaw himself couldn't move. Only watch. Dazed at the chaos and commotion, not knowing where to start. His eyes slowly fell down to the pelt in his hands, not really seeing it, gently molding it into a ball absentmindedly. His mind quickly began planning out his next three moves; Camp needed to be drained, food and ammo moved to higher ground, along with gang members tents and horses-

"Mr Morgan!"

Arthur looked up surprised, breathing in sharply at the shock of being directly addressed and saw their indomitable camp mother marching straight for him.

"Miss Grim-" Arthur began in a hoarse voice before coughing it away, "Miss Grimshaw?"

"Where have you been?!" the matriarch barked, water splashing around her hitched dress, "We've been looking all over! Is Mr Marston with you?"

"Oh, er," Arthur quickly said, half turning to look at the closed tent behind him, "I was erm, J-John, h-he were having his fits again, Miss Grimshaw-"

"Indeed," she said with mawkish authority, eyes narrowing and calculating his disheveled form.

Arthur smiled painfully, his pelvis stinging dully, scrunching that pelt into a tighter ball, as he prayed she was convinced enough as he continued talking. "Told him to go easy on the bottle but," Arthur forced a false chuckle onto his lips, "...well, you know how he gets-"

"Well," Grimshaw sharply cut him off, hard eyes back at his own, "We've started moving your possessions to higher ground. Tilly over saw so if anything is missing then that girl is to blame."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Arthur smiled with a nervous laugh, not being able to stop himself from having verbal diarrhoea, "Miss Jackson is a fine thief."

"Is Mr Marston awake?" the woman shot, ignoring him and marching past the confused outlaw, "We really need to move that tent before anything more floats away."

"Sure, just-!" Arthur said stepping in front of the woman, a hand out, before she could grab the tent flap, surprising himself at the speed with which he blocked her, "Give the boy a moment. Were _real_ bad last night-"

"Mr Morgan is that a _bite_ mark on your shoulder?!"

Arthur frowned at the woman before he looked down and saw his half buttoned up shirt had slipped down, revealing Marston's toothy brand standing out red and angry against his freckled shoulder.

Shit.

"Like I said, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur covered, not bothering to try and hide it and look even more guilty, "It were _real_ bad." 

"I'll say," Miss Grimshaw said, "Mr Bell said he heard a commotion of sorts-"

"What?"

"Just be sure to wake him soon, we need all hands, Mr Morgan!"

Micah heard them?

Micah?

**_MICAH?!_ **

Arthur nodded with a tight smile, utter horror washing over him like a cold shower. Dammit, Bell had heard them? No, don't you go letting your imagination get away with you, Arthur quickly ordered in his head. It was alright. Micah might have _heard_ but didn't _see_ them. The bastard had only the sounds of a struggle to go on and by all tense and purposes, that's what happened. They did fight. Then fuck. But still, sounded like a fight at how they went at each other, he reasoned with himself. However, the thrown accusations of how those bounty posters were correct and following on insults were well on their way to his ears so fast that Arthur began taking bets on the exact wording from Bell's mouth.

He watched, numb as Susan Grimshaw sloshed away, yelling at Bill to stop scaring the chickens into the water.

Arthur walked, or rather splashed, as fast as he could from John's tent. Pulling his legs up and down out of the water, he tried to locate his own in the pandemonium. He trenched through the shallow brown muck, yanking his boots up to free each step with forceful pulls, feeling John's semen running hot down his inner thighs-

"Arthur, there you are!" Dutch's voice shouted with broken pitch from Pearson's wagon.

The blond looked up and saw their leader was holding a very fussy Suffolk Punch, which kept tugging away from being lead into the water to free the sodden vehicle, wheels stuck fast deep in mud. That wagon was going nowhere. "Get over here now and **_help_**!"

Arthur closed his eyes and shifted gears to his appointed role. Cleaning himself of Marston was going to have to wait-

"You too, John!" Hosea shouted, as he lead another work horse into the water at the front of the wagon next to Arthur's tent, tethering it. Arthur blinked and looked over his shoulder to see a rumpled and disheveled John emerging from his tent, narrowed eyes at the painful light or from his smarting crotch, Arthur wasn't sure, "Arthur you take one side of Strauss's wagon, John you take the other," Hosea continued, "Decide among yourselves which goes first, we'll push this thing onto dry land."

"So...," John rasped, half hunched over, coming to a hesitant stop next to the blonde outlaw. Marston stared off in a daze until he nodded to Strauss's distressed wagon, "you wanna push the left side...or the right?"

Arthur wanted to blow his own brains out.

~

It was five long hours later that camp had been successfully moved higher up the hill and most of the storm water drained away into the lake. All members had gotten to work, rolled up their sleeves and moved crates and horses to higher ground.

Even Uncle pitched in.

Those tents in the boggiest parts got moved with the only abodes that were left alone were John's and Dutch's. For the wooden pallets both tents were fitted with had saved most belongings.

Although Arthur cursed at the state of his own tent. Half destroyed, his cot was missing and half the gangs ammunition was lost. His beloved photos had been saved, the one of his mother still resting on his heavy wooden table, the flower next to it having also survived. The same couldn't be said for Mary Linton's portrait. Arthur's chest of clothes had floated away but was soon retrieved. Sean had swum out to grab the bobbing wardrobe and miraculously the clothes inside were not water damaged. Only the chest had suffered a bashing, with Pearson promising him an improved one if Arthur could get a supply of panther pelts. The area, where the gang had marked as the lavatory, they dug around and filled in to stave off diseases. They had enough problems without members getting sick.

The place where the fire happened became clear soon enough to Arthur and John. The main tree in the center of camp had been struck by lightning, setting leaves alight, but was now only gently smoking. The rain had been so heavy in the night that it had put the fire out soon after it had begun. However, the main poker table had caught when a burning branch had landed on it, searing the pronghorn hide that covered it. (Arthur promised to source pelts for a new one.)

All in all, it could have been much worse. But the mutual aim of rebuilding camp had the Van der Linde Gang brought closer together. With singing and laughing at their mutual annoyance at having camp half destroyed, morale was high at their shared dilemma, each nodding to one another in shared understanding of their predicament.

Except for John Marston and Arthur Morgan.

Neither outlaw spoke to the other, except to shout commands along with the others, as camp was re-positioned and made safe.

No one said it, but just where the hell Arthur, and by extension John, had been during the almost flaming catastrophe was unsaid. But the dark blonde haired man could near taste the questions in the air. Specially if Micah had begun spreading rumors. But Arthur didn't need anyone to tell him that the most trusted strong arm of the Van der Linde gang had failed. No one was kicking him more so than Arthur Morgan was himself.

Arthur carried over the last heavy item, a cleaned butcher table, and placed it down in front of Pearson's mess wagon. He was grateful that he didn't have to stop every now and again anymore when the pain in his pelvis grew. Breathing heavily, when he first began to help, it was Sean while proudly holding Arthur's saved chest, who had thrown teases his way of 'Ah the old man can't keep his shit together to even walk right! Too bad, too bad!" to which Arthur had wanted to throw an insult but was too tired and in pain. Instead he growled a half assed 'get lost' from leaning on the side of his tent, before throwing himself back into work.

But his heart did skip a beat when Sean had shouted in jest to the gang that Arthur was 'all shagged out', upon taking a break and an offered drink from Mary Beth.

That got Arthur moving.

Faster and harder.

After a while, his post coitus ache had tempered off, replaced with arms and legs now stiff from lifting, brow sweating from exertion. Not to mention he now was covered in a sheen of mostly mud, grime, sweat and...yep, that was most definitely horse crap he could smell. Gods above he needed to wash, and after a few more hours in the hot Lemoyne air, his own stench from which he was usually blind too, was annoying him something fierce.

But Arthur didn't stop.

Not until camp was all up and running, like there hadn't been a full on storm only several hours ago. When the last tent was re-pitched, Arthur stood back and admired the handy work with hands on hips. He got a thankful nod from Hosea and that was it.

All done.

Arthur moved to sit down on a log for the first time since running out on John and winced. Shit he _still_ ached. Damn it, why did Marston have to go so rough at it? He sneaked a quick look across camp and saw the grab at Marston's nuts had the boy still carefully walking.

Arthur snorted, for it was almost comical-

"Phew! Mr Morgan, I hope you don't mind me saying, but you are _ripe_!"

Arthur laughed loudly as the jolly cook came over.

"That I can't argue with."

"You boys looking forward to the train job later?" Pearson asked with a chuckle, starting to prepare his nearby cooking table for the long awaited stew.

"The train?" Arthur asked automatically and knew what Pearson meant the moment he said it. Picking up a box of premium cigarettes from the mess wagon, Morgan slipped one out, "Oh, Micah's thing...yeah well, maybe I won't wash up. Who knows...stench could knock everyone out. Make it easier to rob folk."

Pearson laughed once more before he patted Arthur on the shoulder, the outlaw lighting up, "Thank you for your help again, Arthur. My wagon and livelihood are saved."

"Don't mention it," Arthur mumbled around the smoke, happier than he had been in a while. Back to his old self. He looked around at the next thing that needed his strength but...no, everything seemed to be in order. The women were busy sewing and darning clothes in their new lean-to with Mrs Grimshaw keeping a hawk eye over them. Bill and Kieran were tending to the tired horses, Sadie feeding the damp chickens, Charles lifting sacks of grain, Uncle doing nothing and John- 

They caught each other's eye.

"ARTHUR!" Dutch's voice cried out from a chair across camp, making the filthy outlaw flinch, "I can smell you from here! Stop smoking and go and _wash_!"

"Will do, Dutch!" Arthur shouted, quickly finishing up his nicotine hit and stubbing it out in the mud.

Ah, the official call to down tools. Time to finally, _finally,_ wash himself and rid his body of what seemed like every smell camp could offer. But more importantly; he needed to flush John out, if there was anything left.

And drink even more of that herbal tea.

Making sure he didn't draw anyone's attention, Arthur sighed and stood up. Grimacing from the slight soreness, he moved to his newly pitched tent, next to the gang's ammo stash. He scratched at the side of his neck, fingers brushing over the black neck tie he had discreetly donned earlier to hide any bite marks. He didn't need another Grimshaw moment from anyone else-

John called out to him.

Needing to suddenly avoid the twenty-six year old, Arthur ignored the shout and turned sharply towards the horses. He found his stallion and mounted quickly before kicking his unsaddled horse to turn right, heading along the shore line of Flat Iron Lake. The blonde moved as far away from camp as he could, as fast as he could without going into a full on gallop. Knowing there was a bend in the river where another stream met the lake, the mouth of the borne flowing fast, where there would be some privacy.

However, as he trotted out, he found himself suddenly listening out for Old Boy being told to follow. But nothing came. Arthur moved further away and it wasn't until camp was completely out of sight did he let out a long breath, surprisingly disappointed that Marston hadn't barrelled after him and demanded they talk.

Arthur Morgan growled to himself as his hips swayed along in time with his horse's now calm and ambling walk along the beach.

Forcing his mind to think about anything  _but_  Greasy Johnny Marston; Arthur succeeded. For a moment. Camp was fine, everyone accounted for and, side from some minor damage to a few of their possessions, everything was back to normal. Arthur searched his mind for anything else to stop him thinking of John and he began evaluating the stage job. Before this thing with Marston even happened.

He frowned.

Thinking back on the job, with Micah's no show... a tugging worry, or rather confusion, that hadn't gone away since but waited quietly in the back of Arthur's mind made itself known. Why the hell had there been so much security for nothing more than a coach with two people in it, baffled him. Sure the takings were handsome, but something was very much... _off_  about how the whole thing went down. For blood hounds were only sent out with seasoned Bounty Hunters for notoriously dangerous outlaws. Not some opportunistic bandits that loitered the roads. No, it was if the Bounty Hunters knew two high value outlaws would be there. Knew people such as John Marston and Arthur Morgan would be there. Knew the hounds would have an easy time following the scent of blood...

_"He's too lazy, Dutch," Micah's voice drawled, "Wouldn't even scratch his ass if ya' paid him for the privilege."_

_Arthur, slumped over on his side in his tent and wishing these god awful cramps would go away, cracked an eye open._

_"Marston's good to go," Bell continued, "but it ain't gonna be much of a robbery if we don't got the strong arm."_

_Arthur frowned, wondering who the hell Micah was shitting on now. And John had agreed to a job? Ah, not that damn coach job of Micah's he'd been banging on about-_

_"I know Arthur's been under the weather," said Dutch, as Morgan_ _forced himself to sit up, his head going dizzy from the rush of blood._ _"And I am aware," Van der Linde continued, commanding tone hard as ever, as if knowing what Micah was about to say next, "that he has not brought in as much funds this past week-"_

_"If we miss this stage," Micah near pleaded, "we're gonna be fools, Dutch. Ain't gonna be another like it. Trust me on this."_

_"You feelin' alright, Micah?" Arthur drawled as loudly as he could, pulling himself up to standing and hating how his flow grew stronger at the action,"Thought I heard some woman nagging."_

_"Oh look who it is," Bell snorted, "Finally got off your behind, Morgan?"_

_Arthur sucked up as much strength as he could muster, trying to deal with his abdomen cramping, and sauntered over to Dutch's tent. Shooting Micah a shit eating grin, a faint pinch in his brow the only thing to indicate Aunt Flow's visit._

_"' S'ok Dutch, said I'd do the job to Marston. Son of a bitch won't stop yapping 'bout it." He turned and looked at Bell accusingly, "I blame you for that."_

Then the hypocritical fool never showed.

Arthur frowned again, for a suspicious thought began creeping up his spine.

Could...could Micah have set them up? But...why? For what gain? Sure, Bell was a shit stain if ever there was one, and he'd gladly see the man swing but...ah, maybe he was thinking too much into it. Micah had a habit of getting drunk anyhow and acting 'damn near crazy' according to Lenny. Knew a lot of people too, but not in a friendly fashion. That stunt, or rather massacre, he pulled in Strawberry a few months back more than enough evidence on both the former and the latter. Perhaps Micah got held up before the stage robbery. Or turned yellow the moment he saw the Bounty Hunters and their dogs. He had a funny tendency to bolt when shit was going down, anyway.

And things would have turned out very differently if Micah had shown, Arthur concluded, for he wouldn't have let John Marston fuck him.

Arthur grit his teeth with a growl.

Christ almighty, what was he doing? What was _John_ doing? The nerve of that skinny ass delinquent. To put this change in their relationship upon him. To think having feelings for Arthur and acting upon them, did Marston believe wouldn't have ramifications?! They lived in a gang where everyone knew everyone's business, if they wanted too or not. And here he was, pining and sulking like a goddamn girl that John hadn't followed him? Hadn't instantly noticed that the tank like outlaw had left camp? Since when did John Marston own his soddin' brain?

But then again, it looked like he owned John's mind to some degree. The boy had fled camp for a year...and now Arthur had temporarily fled from John just calling out to him-

There was a crack of twigs with hurried footsteps.

Arthur's hand automatically flew to his hip, yanking his horse to turn around quickly. But he kept his gun holstered as he looked up to see one Kieran Duffy following.

"You want something O'Driscoll?!" Arthur snapped with the disappointment it wasn't John.

The teen skidded to a dramatic halt in the sand as he began blabbering.

"J-j-just want-wanted to make sure you're alright and give you something that came-"

"Do I look alright?" Arthur dead toned, staring over at the boy.

"No."

Arthur blinked.

"Y-y-you look like you've been dragged through a bush backwards-"

Woah, hold up. Since when did Kieran grow a set?

"-if-if you don't mind me saying so, Mr Arthur."

Ah, there it was.

"Kid, you better turn 'round and march right back to camp before I come over there and start breakin' bones. Ma' promise still stands, you know," he grinned sadistically, remembering his initial kidnapping of Kieran in the first place and threat of his over use of a voice.

Kieran looked terrified as he struggled to speak.

Poor kid, Arthur grimaced. He really did give that boy a hard time.

"Kid, I'm only needlin'," the older outlaw sighed with a grumble from under his gambler's hat, "Spit it out."

"It's just...," Kieran spluttered, "...well a letter came for you a-a-and the lady seemed real urgent with it."

Arthur gently kicked his horse to march up to Duffy, his interest piqued.

Kieran eyed the stallion approaching him, taking a step back.

Without breaking eye contact, Arthur reached down and snatched said letter from the young man's finger tips, as his horse walked in a circle around the newest member of the gang.

"Go on, get outta here," Arthur mumbled, eyes on the letter's elegant handwriting, before making sure the boy wouldn't search him out again, "Follow me again n' I'll shoot ya' in the balls."

"Okay! You got it, Mister!" the boy cried, tripping backwards over his own feet, "I won't be following you no more-"

"Hnn," Arthur grunted, uninterested as Kieran made his escape. He scrutinized the envelope, his heart leaping into his mouth. Arthur's breath hitched as that familiar urge to drop everything and run to the author of this message washed over him.

Mary _-I-always-need-your-help-Arthur_ -Linton.

But just as that urge to automatically agree to what ever outlandish request she deemed Arthur worthy of by tugging at his heart strings...another urge began to preoccupy his thoughts.

It was John. Smiling down at him. Nodding in between Arthur's rough palms with soft eyes and warm touches. It was of holding him, as the outlaw worked through his nightmares. Of Arthur burying his nose into that long and lanky dark hair that smelt fantastic, carefully rubbing small circles into Marston's back. Of John's passionate voice shouting into his face that he had fallen for him and whispering in rasps that he needed Arthur back on the Heartlands.

Arthur felt that gentle glow within his chest that made the world just that bit brighter.

He had that once with Mary.

Then Mac.

And look how they both turned out.

Arthur grunted in mental pain.

It was as if his brain was literally tearing him in half. One side pulling him low into anger, ruthlessness and bitterness. Over Mac's abandonment and his confusion if Mary had truly just been using him all these years. While the other side was tempting him into a constant state of happiness and contentment. With soft touches in black furs, John's breathless moans and secret smiles...then it circled right back round to anger at being confused and scared as hell over where him and John went from here.

He didn't even want to think about how much danger he'd put himself in...for if those teas stopped working...

Oh for fuck's sake, don't be two people at once, Morgan you moron. Pick!

"WAIT!"

Kieran skidded in the sand, falling over and turned back at Arthur's shout.

"Ye-yes, Mr Morgan?"

"Put this on my table, will look at it later," he said calmly, handing the unopened message back when Kieran was in range, "Now get outta here."

Kieran nodded and ran.

Arthur watched the boy's skinny frame and white shirted back get further and further away until he was alone once more.

Goddamn it, Mary wanted to speak to him? _Again?_ Hadn't he made it very clear the last time they met that he couldn't do this anymore? Maybe he hadn't been clear or maybe she just didn't listen.

Probably both.

Arthur's ache at his crotch began to swell again and he cursed.

He wanted to take the last few days back. Forget it ever happened and to tell John this ended right here and right now. And at the same time, he desperately wanted to run with it, to see how far they could go. He couldn't stop thinking about that idiot. Remembering the cave up at Granite Pass, the Heartlands...even the risky clash of lips when he had grabbed Marston after they fled Valentine. But it didn't compare to the thrill of bedding Marston in his own tent.

Arthur Morgan sighed.

He wanted to wake up next to John everyday. To hold him. To laugh with him. To needle him and kiss him and touch him and to have John always by his side.

Did he and John not both deserve happiness?

He'd thought about this before...as his mind when to the obvious and horrific end result of him and Mac.

_A twenty five year old Arthur sat on the edge of the roof of the farm barn house, hollering his lungs out and clapping as explosions flew high up in the air, flowers of fire, red, green and yellows. He'd never seen fireworks before and Mac had really out done himself with this vantage point. The sharp edge of anger and wanting to smash things over that stupid woman's choice of another man had been dulled. Somewhat. Not enough to stop it from truly hurting but now he had to concentrate to feel the sting. But what was going on in town was next to getting black out drunk level of distraction for Arthur Morgan.  
_

_"Knew you'd like it. Bit o' watching things go boom for the famous outlaw Arthur Morgan, as he oohs and aahhs like a fookin pussy-"_

_"Shuttup, I'mma tryin' to watch this," Arthur laughed, shoving a hand out and into the Scottish outlaw's shoulder, not taking his eyes off of the sky as Mac Callander handed him their fourth bottle of whiskey.  
_

_The fire works reached their crescendo and faded out as a loud cheer rose from the crowd below the two men. The mayor shouting there would be a ten minute interval while they set up the next and final set._

_"Ya' miss Scotland?" Arthur asked, taking a drink as the crowd down in Tumbleweed cheered again and waited for the next bout of fireworks to let fly, the pyrotechnics dashing around the wooden scaffolding._

_"Oh, aye. Davey not so much, but...well, that be the old world. Ain't much there for us. But here, we can do **what ever the fuck we like**!" Mac near screamed the last part down at the crowd, but they were too far away to hear.  
_

_The rest of the gang were down there somewhere. Pick pocketing and working the unsuspecting folks, but Dutch and Hosea had said Arthur could sit this one out. Didn't need one very unhinged Arthur Morgan getting drunk from trying to fix heartache, demolishing half the town and blowing the gang's cover as a group of travelling entertainers. Sean had been in his element along with Trelawny, the two con artists setting up a booth and dazzling with magic tricks and stories from the ancient. Was mostly bull crap, but it turned enough heads and made enough money that the gang couldn't pass up a rich harvest festival. Upon the gang divvying up their roles, Mac had said he'd look after the sulking elephant in the room and take Arthur out for some good old fashioned 'let's forget the bitch with a night out on the tiles' so off the two went. Arthur ignored the look of annoyance from that raccoon boy as they mounted up... and that odd thumbs up from Davey to Mac._

_"You miss the valleys?" Mac asked, hearing Maguire's kid voice drifting over to them, banging on about the fairies and leprechauns of his mother land to his captive crowd of children.  
_

_"Of Wales? Wouldn't know, never been," Arthur grunted, finishing his whiskey and starting another. Taking it slow was out of the question, it seemed...  
_

_"Thought you said you's was o' Welsh stock!" Mac demanded, "With a name like ARTHUR MORGAN, you ain't foolin' me you's English and you's sure as shit ain't a Scot."_

_"Well I ain't Irish like Sean the Terrier," Arthur laughed, remembering that mischievous red headed eight year old was now more of a little brother to him than that clingy teenage thorn John Marston could ever be. Why couldn't Dutch have given the golden boy status to Maguire? They got on better and he could stand him a hell of a lot easier. Made him laugh more too with all that yappin' like a little cheeky dog.  
_

_"Maguire? Oh that boy, he's got something against the whole of them British Isles. Got into a right barney with Davey about us Highlanders," then Mac snorted, "I dinnit get the other Scot's backing, no surprise there -"  
_

_"Ya' mean John?"_

_"Aye."_

_"He ain't Scottish," Arthur scoffed, taking another drink,"Blood might be, but you n' he? Chalk and cheese. Thinks coz Dutch gives him the most attention he can lord it over us. Saw him ordering your brother around the other day on a job. Hope Davey gave him a good wallopin'."  
_

_Mac laughed loudly but it faded after a few chuckles._   _He scratched almost nervously behind an ear, under his dark and half moth eaten hat,"...hey, you know...me' brother's heard some fookin' ridiculous things about yous."_

_"Like what?" Arthur slurred, eyes still on the crowd.  
_

_"That's you's a bloody lassie."_

_Arthur turned to Mac with wide eyes before bursting out laughing._

_"Davey think's imma woman?! Hahahaha!" Arthur slapped his own thigh, "What gave it away? Were it the bonnet in ma' hair or the fact I keep my garters under ma' pillow?"_

_"I dunno," Mac laughed, "Me brother just said Williamson blurted he saw ya diddlin' with Colm O'Driscoll."_

_The blonde grimaced before_   _Mac Callander slapped the back of a hand against Arthur's chest, holding it there with mock seriousness, "Hey mate, if you prefer the same side o' the playing field as our Bill does, then I ain't judging-"_

_"Well most people think you and Davey are a liability!" Arthur continued to laugh with a twinkle in his eye, "But hey, I ain't judging."  
_

_"Oh aye, here's to that then, ya' cheeky bastard!" Mac laughed and they clinked bottles.  
_

_They both guffawed and drank more until a comfortable silence fell between them as the outlaws waited for the next round of colors in the sky._

_"...so are you a woman?" Mac asked, suddenly looking confused and incredibly worried.  
_

_Arthur turned his drunken head to the larger outlaw. Maybe it was the bottle. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was how the thirty-year-old's strong arms and shoulders kept grabbing his attention. Perhaps it was the giddy excitement from the fireworks or from the pure rage burning just under his skin at Mary Linton and how she had let herself be stolen from him by a man with an actual dick that made Arthur Morgan lean forwards towards Mac Callander with a mischievous smirk._

_"...n' what would you do if I was?"_

_Arthur had hardly got the sentence out his mouth when Mac's warm lips were upon his own, the fireworks lighting up the night sky, along with Mary Linton's betrayal, now completely and utterly forgotten.  
_

A seagull called and Arthur Morgan came out of his memories. Was one of the softer ones with Mac...before...before the end result he damn well knew would happen had happened. But he had shoved that episode so far down into his guts that he knew he wouldn't have blurted anything out to John. Not in bed, anyway. 

Out of everything John could have stolen from the cave...

Arthur remembered the jolt at first seeing that red fox pelt and was suddenly unsure. Had...had Mac told John what had happened? Why Dutch kicked him out? No, that was too ludicrous. As far as he knew, back when the elder Callander brother was still a member; John had spoken to Mac as much as he did to Micah; hardly. Anyway, the Callander Brothers were notoriously violent, by even their standards, and if anything would pick on John when Dutch and Hosea weren't looking. He had joined in a few times; ribbing John on how he was Dutch's pet, making fun of his shooting skills, etc. But Mac would always take it too far and when he did...it was why John was now petrified of water.

And the day the thirty one year old had left...

A self imposed exile, is what Dutch had officially told the gang. But Arthur knew the truth. Knew it as much as the stitches in his chin and those months he had spent recovering from the ordeal Mac's selfishness had put him through. His depressed brother Davey had soldiered on within the gang for an impressive number of years before being downed after the Blackwater job. He wondered if Mac knew his brother was no longer in the land of the living. An odd feeling of wanting to hunt the man down and tell him crossed Arthur's mind but he let it go. As far as Arthur knew; Mac could be either alive or dead himself.

Arthur frowned in thought at what he might say to Mac after all these years if the prick dared to show his face again, ignoring that his horse had become bored and had started nibbling at grass. Arthur let the reigns slack as he continued to stare off into space, desperately trying to figure out where he and John went from here. If it came out to Dutch that both John and Arthur had these...feelings... for each other, then...

This would not be a repeat of what happened with Mac. For one, John was not Mac. Dutch's reaction would be completely different but Van der Linde would react all the same.

And then if he got with John's child...

No.

No, this thing with John stopped right here.

So why did the thought feel like the air was being crushed out of his lungs?

Half tousled, somewhat slouched over and with his blue summer shirt hanging off a shoulder, Arthur saw something that caught his blue eyes. A dull bite mark on his shoulder from the Heartlands peaked out from under this black necktie. He checked his arm and saw too that bite mark from the cave had nearly gone. But the one on his shoulder was going to take longer to fade.

Arthur's mind went back again to the moment he spotted the red fur peeking out from the pallet.

"Why, John?" he mumbled to himself in a drawl, wrenching his eyes away from the bites with a scowl, "Why ya have ta' take _that_ one? Of all the goddamn things..."

Arthur sighed long and hard, shifting again in the saddle. He should have known John would take _something_ from the cave. Sneaky bastard. Hmm, maybe he should repay the favor and nick something of his. Perhaps that shiny new varmint rifle Marston had bought before he wondered what the scar faced man's reaction would be if he ever found out _why_ Mac gave him that pelt in the first place.

Abigail's faint and far away voice caught him off guard, screeching hysterically at John, and Arthur Morgan's head sunk into a hand, palm across closed eyes.

What a goddamn mess this all was.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vocabulary Note: "Like chalk and cheese" - British expression to mean two people are very different.


	9. Time Ain't No Bed Fellow

John winced as Abigail continued to screech.

"You're a pathetic man, John Marston! Gettin' ya head all bashed up like that."

The dark haired outlaw had managed to hold his tongue so far. Having lifted, pulled and push wagons and tethered nervous horses all day, John was beyond drained. He had managed to keep out of the flood waters above his ankles with no one giving him shit for it. All knew the outlaw's fear of water, so John had been relegated to the higher and dryer parts of camp. Coordinating new tents and hitching posts. So he didn't fight when Abigail wrinkled her nose and pulled him by the arm down to the edge of Flat Iron Lake. Though upon seeing that large body of water, Marston was suddenly reminded of a certain Mac Callandar trying to shorten his life span.

John jerked back in hesitation and Roberts paused before gently pulling him into the shallow end of the creek, with harsh yet encouraging words. She ordered him to scrub the stink off while she checked his head. For John had been rubbing his skull all day and it had not escaped her notice. Among other things... like that odd walk of his.

John Marston obediently began to strip, replaying the vision in his head of Arthur dashing away. It had been a long shot in the dark, but...somehow, Marston had hoped the blonde would look back if only to acknowledge the shout. Even a flip of a middle finger would have been preferable to the flat out ignore. But too tired and defeated at the rejection, alongside Abigail's onslaught of commands, he submissively splashed water into his hair, standing knee deep in the lake. John shivered at the cold and that old watery fear, completely naked, numbly wiping a cold wet cloth up and down his arms and chest. But no matter how hard he scrubbed; John stank of Arthur Morgan.

And was pretty sure Abigail could tell.

"We could hear you two over other side of camp," she sniped, bringing over dry clothes and placing them onto a log, "Arguing like fools. Was glad the storm arrived if only to drown you idiots out!"

John breathed out with a shake of his wet head. Thankful that was all she, and anyone else, had heard, it seemed. His emotional outburst at Morgan had remained private, along with the fact they'd slept together.

"Why the hell Arthur went into ya' tent in the first place, I got no idea-"

"Woman," John scoffed with a incredulous laugh over his shoulder, "I was having night terrors!"

"And he needed to be in there with you?" she demanded.

"Yeah!"

"So what happened to your crotch?" the woman accused, setting an empty bucket down, "been walkin' funny since this morning. Did Arthur-"

"Arthur kicked me in the balls coz' I punched him in the face," John shot with an angry lie, "That enough reason for you?"

"Hardly," she said tartly," But...I'm glad you's alright now."

"I can't control what I do," John added with an almost sulk, "You've been there when it happens...you'd have done the same thing!"

A smile quirked at a corner of the former whore's lips.

"True."

John continued to use the linen cloth to clean, dipping it into the water and removing old sweat from the wiry black hair on his chest. He had rejected Abigail's earlier suggestion he wade into the water further. Didn't care if it was quicker, he argued back, that was still too much liquid for him. He looked off into the distance somewhere that Arthur had run off too as he trudged back up the bank and sat on the log with a squelch, Abigail now tending to the lump that had formed at the back of his skull.

John was glad that he and Arthur had avoided one another.

At first.

But found he still automatically searched for a blue shirted figure as the men back at camp now turned their attention to prepping for the train robbery. John wasn't sure why Arthur was so angry it was _that_ particular pelt he'd pinched. Alright, so he shouldn't have nabbed it but, truthfully, John had wanted something to remember that Granite Pass and the Heartlands had happened. It was just a fox pelt. Honestly, he dearly wished to have at least one of the thick bear and wolf hides from the bed, if not all of them. What was so special about a seemingly plain old fox one?

"Where the hell is Micah?" Dutch's voice called with annoyance, which was answered by Bill shouting he didn't know and Charles adding he'd find him.

"Now sit still," Abigail ordered, as she parted his drenched and greasy hair to get at the small swelling.

John nodded but felt bile in his throat.

Micah Bell.

How many times had he caught Micah studying Arthur as they worked to drain camp? It wasn't a sort of general watching, either. But calculated. Purposeful. Like Micah wanted to ask Morgan a question or...was waiting for the ample moment to pounce. But then, Micah and Arthur had always been at each other's throats. Staring one another out when the other got too close or throwing verbal jabs to score points.

Just seemed something was even more off about Bell than usual today.

John found himself searching out Dutch's new favourite, scanning his eyes around camp for that white hat, the hairs on his neck standing up. He was going to keep a close eye on Dutch's bosom buddy.

But Micah was no where to be found.

Marston frowned.

Had the bastard left camp?

John growled with an angry curse, tilting his head away sharply when the cloth was placed to the bump on his head.

Which got him a slap on the arm.

"Ow!"

"Did I say you could move?!"

"No?"

"Then hush up and sit still," Abigail snapped as she rubbed the smelly petroleum into his skin, "This balm should make the swelling go down."

 Silence fell upon them as she continued to tend to the lump behind his head. It hurt more than his balls did, now a dull ache. But as John continued to search out Bell among the tents, he suddenly saw from the corners of his eyes the way Abigail sat when she wanted to ask him something.

"What?" he mumbled with annoyance, eyes not leaving his searching.

"John, that bounty," she started almost nervously, combing a hand through his hair having now finished, "of your's and Arthur's...says you both-"

"I know," John sighed putting a hand up and then letting it fall. He knew this talk was coming, "And it ain't like that. Listen Abigail, we didn't...I didn't....Arthur...," John shut his eyes and gave up trying to be tactful, throwing the dirty cloth that was still in his hands into an empty bucket, "no one shoved anything up anyone's ass."

Which was technically the truth.

"It's just...," the woman said seeking out his hand and squeezing it, "Hosea seems to think..."

"What?"

Abigail looked away.

"What does he seem to think, Abigail?"

"He seems to think it's true," she snapped, not looking at him, releasing her hold and John oddly missed it, "...said he was gonna speak to you boys about it."

John's stomach dropped into a cold pit.

"Hosea really believes Arthur fucked me?"

"More like the other way around," the woman said, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

John was speechless until his equally famous anger took over.

"You'd think I'd do that to him?!" John shrieked in nothing more than a hoarse rasp, "That he'd even let me if I _wanted_ too-"

"He sleeps with men, John," Abigail shot, "I aint' stupid, I've seen the way he looks at you. Doesn't take a genius to figure out he's been pinin'.

For a moment John was taken aback at hearing confirmation from someone other than Arthur that the outlaw had feelings for him.

_"This thing we have, we need to keep it far away from here," Arthur stated, quickly brushing a hand out to the camp and gang members behind them, "Till we figure it out. And we need to be careful. Coz' we're playing with fire here, Marston, and I can not afford ta' get burnt-"_

John shook his head to get Arthur's warning out of his head, as it mixed with the reality he and Arthur were fucking morons for screwing in a crowded camp.

"Then both you and Hosea are dumb," he doubled down with a low brow, "We've never-"

"He was sure one of yous did!" she shouted loudly.

"Jesus woman, I don't...I don't know what to say," John finally gave up, "We didn't. Ain't that enough for me to just say it?"

It was Abigail's turn to sigh.

"Look John, I don't care if you did or didn't I just..." Abigail began to admit.

"Yeah?"

"...I just don't want him to hurt you."

"Huh?" John started, "Hurt me?"

"Your head and what ever happen to ya' nethers-"

"Abigail-"

"And he's half crazy most days. Destroys things even if he don't mean to and," Abigail continued, turning to face him, "You know what Pearson calls him, right? 'The Butcher?' "

John vaguely remembered Pearson throwing that nickname around Colter.

"He ain't that crazy," he found himself retorting, "Sometimes he is but, that's Arthur. He's different-"

"I swore I saw him drinkin' birth bitters the other day."

"What?"

"You know," Abigail said, "it's a type of tea?"

"Yeah, I know what it is but-"

"What business is it of a man to be drinking that?"

"How should I know?" John Marston shot too quickly for his own liking.

Roberts looked away with annoyance before she sighed again.

"And I...," she struggled to say, "I just don't want him to hurt you is all-"

"You worry too much," he said, finding himself repeating Arthur's words to him, looking out towards the lake, "Arthur...side from last night... Abigail, he ain't gonna hurt me. Christ, today? He's been avoiding me all damn day."

"Just as well," she said with her nose up in the air, "as I told him to stay right away from you."

John snapped his eyes back at her.

"You did what?!"

"I ain't lettin' nobody hurt you, John," Abigail said staunchly, "Not ma' husband."

John stared at her incredulous, mouth open. 

"Woman, I _ain't_ your husband!"

"John!" a voice called excitedly from the side, "Hey John, you ready for that cattle rustl...oh erm," Uncle came to a stop, eye flicking between a fuming Roberts and a naked Marston, "I wasn't, erm...wasn't interrupting anything, was I?"

"No," a damp John spat, snatching his red union suit from the side before marching off back to camp, "Nothing at all."

~

Arthur, sitting atop his stallion, couldn't stop watching the fish lazily swimming around in the storm water.

But the more time passed, the further his mood began to deteriorate.

It wasn't the ache.

It wasn't the bite marks.

Hell, it wasn't even the fact he had to buy and take that bitter birth control again or that he had publicly failed in his duty as Dutch's lead enforcer.

No, what was presently driving him crazy was one simple thing.

It was the over powering scent of John Marston.

It was on his skin and in his hair and it was utterly suffocating.

And Arthur hated it was mostly coming from one particular place.

He had ribbed John for years on how greasy he was and even the cheapest whore in the world wouldn't go near him if he didn't take a bath at least once a month and wash that dick of his. Even with Miss Grimshaw boxing his ears one too many times or forcing those members, who kept forgetting to wash, into a bath. The constant battle of trying to keep clean was one war the gang constantly took part in. Having lived rough for most of his life, either on the streets before he met Dutch, or from running around the country with the gang, Arthur had come to accept that strong smells were a part of life.

From the camp fire stench that permeated  _everything_ , blood from jobs gone right and wrong, mud, spent gunpowder and horseshit. Not to mention the alcohol, tobacco, and Pearson's infamous cooking. But the sharpest scent of all was body odour. Especially from those members that neglected to wash or rub some fucking snuff into their pits. No one around camp liked it when one could clear the vicinity. Miss Grimshaw was a literal hawk on those who fell into this category and Arthur smirked painfully that she had literally pulled him by the ear once into a bath. But as far as targets went, John Marston was her favourite. For that boy could grease paper with his shoulder length hair alone.

Arthur reached with a hand under his shirt and scratched his belly absentmindedly.

He knew he was quite lose with his own levels of hygiene, being out on his own most of the time. He didn't really care. No one around apart from himself _to_ care. And his horse wasn't about to run off if he reeked. But if there was one place on his goddamn worn out body he  _did_  try and keep close to godliness was now causing him concern as he sat there.

Was one of the things that did disgust him about his long ago nights out in his misspent twenties. Arthur would admit he could never forget the sharp stench of spent, making him hate himself even more, when he watched the other satisfied party fix up their belt and hop back on their horse. Itch well and truly scratched as Arthur was left with washing himself down in what ever creek or river he came across with water and regret.

If he could go back in time and shake some sense into his younger self, he would. Probably with a well meaningful right hook. But thanked his past self for becoming incredibly picky with his men.

Lone men out on the road, outlaws like himself, or traders breezing through which ever state the gang had set up home in. If it was another outlaw he'd be with, ideally one who was not tied to a gang...and clean.

From the amount of black eyes, threats and way too many close calls from wrong fellas and mis-communication when he first started sleeping haphazardly with men in his teens, Arthur had more or less settled for three regulars over the years, for his own safety. Before the debacle with Mac and just after his hideous mistake of Colm.

The first man was a trapper from Colorado, who travelled between New Austin and West Elizabeth twice a year. Mid thirties and with a real nasty chip on his shoulder.

Second was a lonely and shy shepherd in Tumbleweed. Early twenties, like himself, who loved talking about his flock. Arthur would humour him and even learnt a thing or two about herding. Years later he would hate the fact that no matter how much he tried not to see the resemblance; Kieran Duffy could have been that sod's twin.

The third was a much older and rugged outlaw, who preferred the company rather than anything else. Arthur always looked forward to their particular liaisons. Where the grizzled cowboy would tell dramatic stories of his own gang, now long disbanded, and life on the run in general. He'd been married five times, no children and was deaf in one ear. He'd gone through some hard shit in his life, but it never dulled the old coot's sense of humour.

That left an impression on a twenty something Arthur.

Arthur Morgan pulled his hand out of from his shirt and began automatically snapping his suspenders off, staring off into the middle distance.

With the trapper; strictly sex, no questions asked. He didn't even know the man's name. Usually their meetings were in dark and damp forests, with Arthur ending up on his hands and knees in the dirt, biting his lip and ignoring how the chill stung his bare skin. That man was more forceful then the other two. As if he resented the fact Arthur was Arthur. To which Morgan would warn him with a gun under his throat when things would always get too rough. Their fucks were short and to the point, thankfully.

The Tumbleweed shepherd however...they went out to a saloon, ate a nice meal, drunk themselves into a stupor like they were old friends until they fell into an alley way or barn, laughing their heads off with wondering hands. Morning after were long discussions about herding. Which Arthur found himself sleeping through most times. Once, the boy had even offered money afterwards and Arthur had rejected it, much to the inner voice of Dutch in his head urging him to take it for camp funds.

He was using them as much as they were using him.

But there was one rule with these three and it was Arthur would always make the first move. And end it if things got too rough or painful, knowing he'd be on the rag the next day and needing to be able to ride his horse back to camp un-bowlegged.

Needless to say, his arrangement with the Trapper didn't last long.

But as time wore on, the lure of gun slinging and its instant glory or gold had replaced the thrill of bedding men on the road or behind saloons. For Arthur was a quicker shot than most. And it got him that one thing that trumped everything; that addictive praise from Dutch. Stolen from being constantly on scrawny Marston. And every theft of attention was a boon. Plus, Arthur didn't want to entertain a possibility of contracting the new disease in town; syphilis. And as for scratching his itch; Arthur had been introduced to the joys of one's own hand from a skilful madame in Saint Denis. (Well worth the several dollars for that nugget of knowledge.)

Arthur began to unbutton his blue shirt with vacant eyes.

Just as well he had drifted away from the pleasures of the flesh, as he hadn't seen the moody trapper in years, the shepherd had moved to Canada and, truth be told, Arthur was getting sick of it all. And after one particularly nasty pregnancy scare, having misjudged the timing of his bleed after he got so black out drunk he didn't know which day of the week it was when the trapper went to town on him; had stopped all sexual activity. Vowing celibacy at age twenty-five.

Which lasted until he listened to Mac fucking Callander.

And the old outlaw's last encounter with him was far from sexual. It was a friendly beer, on a warm summer evening, over looking the canyon in New Austin and a long chat about what lead Arthur to this point in his life. Arthur had found he was comfortable around the weathered soul and talked about his upbringing, not mentioning anyone by name, but that he was in a gang and...everyone he cared about left him. One member of his gang in particular, surprised at himself that he had re-established this particular liaison before and after his time with Mac.

"You ever stop to think that maybe this," the old outlaw had rumbled indicating his beer between them and their 'arrangement', "and them other fellas you entertain...is not the right way to fix a broken heart?"

Arthur had oddly become shy and looked down, gambler's hat hiding his face and mumbled that everyone left him anyway. He was sad and pathetic. So what did he care? He was twenty six and getting old. Before the softly smiling outlaw patted him on the knee and said, "You're a good man, Arthur Morgan. Never forget that. It's their loss. And unfortunately mine too."

And then the man had vanished like a coyote into the night.

Arthur Morgan had never forgotten that encounter, even ten years later, and would forever wonder what happened to the kind old cowboy who would prefer a conversation over a quick fumble in the dark.

Arthur watched with detached interest as his fingers unbuckled his belt next.

The process of cleaning himself afterwards and  _keeping_  himself disease or lice free had been difficult as it panned out, risk of having a kid aside.

Couple of times it had happened, worried he'd went and gotten the clap.  _'Somemit' about a goddamn bird'_  he had written in his journal for that day's entry after getting himself checked out at the insane itch that wouldn't go away. Why the hell the Saint Denis doctor told him a damn bird was the cause, he had no idea. But he used the ointment and his 'thrush' song bird mercifully disappeared. A few times he had over heard Abigail and Karen discussing tips for post bedroom romps, such as peeing straight afterwards, for they had heard it might lower the risk of pissing needles.

So Arthur had disciplined himself in following their accidental advice, post rolling in the hay. Well, with the exception of today and that time-

A dark memory surfaced of O'Driscolls under a bridge.

**"Go!"**  Arthur growled, grabbed the reigns and yanked harder than he had intended, wanting to punch his memories away.

His horse snorted in shocked pain, pulling back with a defiant whiny, before giving in to walking further along the shore line.

Arthur, seeing he had reached his destination, hitched his horse and reached up to stroke the neck of his steed. But the beast snorted and jerked it's head back from the pat.

"Oh, I'm sorry boah," Arthur said, grimacing and picked out a couple of celery pieces from his satchel for the animal. (Who instantly forgave and devoured the peace offering with hearty crunches.)

Scanning the immediate area for anyone, Arthur approached the water's edge, mind still well and truly in the past.

Shit, he couldn't go through any more pregnancy scares. Even when part of him was constantly trying to work out what a child would look like if John managed to start life within him.

Winter of 88' scare he wasn't going to forget in a hurry. For addressing his gut feeling that something just wasn't right, and after kicking himself for getting so inebriated with the Trapper that he had miss-timed his bleed, Arthur had sucked up his fear and gotten checked out at the local doctors office in Tumbleweed. After the usual explanation that he wasn't like other fellas, and the physician's eyebrows had returned from his hair line in surprise...Arthur got the news he had been dreading.

He'd left the doctor's in stunned silence, stood for a while staring into the road, and was uncharacteristically silent, automatically returning to camp without thinking. Until, as it happened, a bunch of Colm's boys thought it would be a good time to raid their camp just as he arrived back. The shooting began and it was like flipping a switch. Snapping Arthur Morgan out of his predicament, letting his rage and fear run unchecked.

How goddamn stupid he had been.

How he had successfully dodged that bullet for years until hell finally came round that mountain for him. The panic, the unknown of what happened next, of having to get rid of it, or hide it or have it or tell Dutch and Hosea...it was all too much. Not to mention the timing was horrific. The gang were in mourning for Annabel, Dutch's soul mate as he put it, had been murdered not nine days prior by Colm. Arthur fed on Dutch's hate and grief in the moment, letting it control him from his own anger and sadness at her life being snuffed out and from the panic one was growing within him. The sadistic violence Arthur Morgan had bestowed upon those poor Colm's boys that night had even surprised the Callander brothers.

And that was how it began.

Arthur smiled, remembering the eldest brother Mac, who he had only a passing friendship with at that point. Four years older, the Scot had walked over, shoving a bottle into Arthur's blood stained and shaking hands, smacking him on the back, impressed as hell with what he pulled back there. Having someone friendly to distract himself from it all, to stop himself from going into shock, was bliss. Relieved everyone in camp was accounted for and no one was seriously hurt from the assault, Arthur had never been more thankful in all his life. It had been wonderful. What  _wasn't_  wonderful was the fact he had let Mac in more than he ever should have months later, after hearing Mary had married another man.

But that time it had been a false alarm, on the account of losing weight in the space of a few weeks after the O'Driscoll raid. Turned out he wasn't with child; just with a particularly ravenous set of tape worms.

Later Arthur heard that doctor got fired for amputating the wrong arm on someone, and Arthur had decided the doctor in Saint Denis, who had known his medical history for years, and given him his all clear, would be his _only_ port of call. Sod the five day trek it took to get there. There would be no more local doctor's giving him check ups and shaving years off his life in panic.

He should have gone there in the first place...

Arthur coughed heavily, bringing himself back to the present.

Looking over his shoulder once more to make sure he was truly alone, he grabbed his wash bag from his satchel, hoping he had enough soap left-

"Ah goddamn it," he mumbled, seeing in his haste it wasn't there.

It was back in his tent.

Or fell out into John's.

Arthur Morgan looked left and right until admitting he had no other choice.

He took off his boots and set them aside as his horse continued to rip and chew grass behind him. Arthur reached the shore and wadded carefully into the cold water, gritting his teeth from the temperature drop, until the water covered his upper thighs. His teeth continued to chatter at the cold but onward he pushed, for the sun was starting to set. He kept pushing till he was waist high and got to work on himself. Wouldn't take long, not in this cold and fading light. The storm had churned up silt and trying to wash without bits of sand and dead leaves getting in places they shouldn't was just going to be an annoyance he had to deal with. 

But this next part he would forever owe that working girl in Amarillo. He pushed his pants down to gain access and squatted on his haunches as best he could on the lake bed. He gasped as the freezing water and silt rose to his chest but he breathed the shock out, those scrapes to his lower back from the Heartlands aching. Arthur forced his inner muscles to contract, flushing out John's risk as much as he could. If there was any left.

The dark blonde outlaw tsked.

Should have done this  _way_ before he got to work. But better late than never, he supposed. Arthur nearly rolled his eyes at the entire situation as he watched sea birds in the sky above as he tensed and relaxed in succession.

He hadn't needed to do all this shit in  _years._  

Arthur went into his head again as he emptied his bladder next, wincing at the slight sting. He hated squatting, preferring to pee standing up. Had taken a few times, experimenting with too many fingers around too many holes, but he had finally succeeded. Now at a bar he could piss up against a wall well enough to not draw suspicion.

Morgan congratulated himself that even when drunk off his face he could do it.

When finished, Arthur pulled his draws up and moved further upstream where the rush from the river entered Flat Iron Lake. Once again opening up his flyer underwater, he shifted his knees apart and paused. He cringed with a "You moron, Morgan" before shoving a hand down the front of his pants and quickly got to work. He hissed louder than he had expected, body tensing before he forced himself to relax. Shit, he forgot how much it hurt like hell to be taken multiple times in one night. Especially having just been on. The job today was going to be...interesting. The coldness of the water did it's job of numbing the pain as he washed and cursed Marston's relentless pace in equal measure. Bet the wolf man couldn't make tender sweet love if his life depended on it.

Arthur scoffed.

Maybe that was why Abigail was always angry with him-

There was movement in the bushes and he froze, locating the sound instantly. A couple of turkeys, scratching at the ground for worms, were fighting amongst themselves before they ran away into the brush.

Arthur snorted out of his nose and blinked back fatigue as the day caught up with him.

Jesus, he was tired.

And with tiredness came poor decision making and lethal mistakes. Needed a quick kip before the train job or he'd get his head blown off-

A chill suddenly went up Arthur's spine and he quickly breathed out. Morgan began to wash further and quicker, seeing the faint traces of red from his crotch fade into water as he scrubbed. Dammit, he was going to have to put some lining in his britches before the train robbery. Wouldn't be much but at least the worst was over. Another reason not to screw while on the rag.

When satisfied, Arthur pulled his pants back up, leaving his belt lose and pulled off his neck tie and blue shirt. He washed his entire body down, scrubbing under arms and neck with his hands, ridding himself of Marston-

"Bit late for a swim ain't it, Morgan?"

Arthur paused, felt rage instantly strike, but composed himself, thanking lady luck he had distance between him and that prick. He strategically threw the summer shirt against the bite on his shoulder to hide it, as he turned to look over his shoulder with disdain. Initial panic that he was unarmed hit, but Arthur quelled that instantly. If the mood did strike the newcomer, the bastard wasn't about to murder him within firing ear shot of camp.

Or Dutch.

"What's it to you?" Arthur drawled at the figure sitting on a large log at the bank, returning to scrubbing behind an ear.

"Nothing'," Micah sighed, fiddling with his pistol, "Fancied taking in the  _fine_  air out here. Was curious where you had gotten too. Disappearing off like that-"

"And watching fellas wash is doing it for ya', is it?" Arthur said with a laugh and sarcastic grin, swinging back into his familiar bravado and steering the conversation away, "Funny. I didn't mark you as the worrin' sort-"

"You and John were making a lot of sounds last night," Micah interrupted, snapping the chamber back into the gun, "We all heard."

Arthur's blood ran cold but forced himself to sigh loudly.

"John were havin' his night terrors," Arthur drawled although it was fucking true he and Marston were careless idiots. God, had Dutch heard them?

"Really?" Micah said, looking back down to his pistols, "Coz it sounded mightily busy in there. Was real worried you two's were having a...disagreement."

"Yeah well, it's done now," Arthur mumbled, before desperately trying to control the conversation once more, "Anyways, you gonna sit there like some peepin' tom or ya gonna go and do some work? Got your train job later."

"Oh, I ain't peepin'," Micah defended, looking up, "...just watching out for the gang's strong arm...who's _always_ there when there's trouble in camp."

"Watching out, huh?" Arthur said, deflecting and shaking out the water from his dirty blonde hair.

"Yeah," Micah said, slowly sliding out and adding bullets back into the guns, "Never know. Might be a water snake out here. Or an O'Driscoll. Heard a few of his boys got you real good a while back," Micah snapped the barrel back into the pistol with a loud 'clack', "if you know what I mean, heh heh-"

"Whatchu want, Bell?" Arthur mumbled with a low growl in his throat, continuing to wash under his arm pits, knowing his chest wasn't as pronounced to gather suspicion and  _really_  not wanting to discuss what a rival gang of men had done to him. He knew when Micah was goading. Could smell that particular brand of bullshit a mile off.

"Just wanted to make sure the sour cowpoke was alright, is all," Micah drawled dramatically, as Arthur tightened his belt and began walking back to shore, "Ain't I allowed ta'?"

Arthur almost managed to pass the white hatted cowboy as he finished up.

"How thoughtful," Arthur said sarcastically under his breath as he trudged back up the bank, wet suspenders snapping back over broad shoulders and up his chest. "Be sure to tell Dutch that. Migh' get a pat on the head or a belly rub if ya' lucky-"

And that was when Arthur Morgan saw it.

He was used to being glared at. In anger or fear were the two that he usually got. Either by rival gangs, duellists, crooked towns folk and law, once a pistol's end had been shoved in their direction. Arthur knew the best educated guess at hidden meanings and intent behind each and everyone of them. Or if he did get them wrong, had learnt enough from his failings over the years to come close.

But it wasn't Micah's usual smug grin or eye rolling snort of boredom the blonde outlaw chose to give him.

No.

No, Arthur knew  _this_  particular look.

Because only one other time had he'd seen it; on the faces of that gang of O'Driscolls under a bridge in Lemoyne.

"Micah," a low voice called and both men turned to see the imposing figure of Charles Smith standing at the top of the muddy bank, "Dutch seeks your council."

"Morgan," Micah said, hopping off the rock, holstering his guns and tipping his hat. The slightly shorter cowboy moved to pass and Arthur felt himself flinch as Bell side stepped, going out of his way to intentionally butt Arthur's shoulder against his own.

Arthur focused on his breathing, keeping the rage at bay, glaring at a spot on the ground.

In and out.

Steady, Morgan...steady...

Arthur suddenly felt another set of eyes upon him.

"You want somethin', Charles?" Arthur said with an unintentional growl, as he marched passed the stoic man with soggy slaps of boots in mud, Bell now out of ear shot.

Christ alive, Micah thought he had big enough balls to eye  _him_  up?!

"I heard what he did to Jenny," Smith said in a low tone as Arthur passed. Morgan stopped and slowly looked over his shoulder, skin pricking at the unspoken meaning. Arthur Morgan nodded his head. Why, he wasn't sure, but more so that he had heard Charles. He watched as the other man walked away. But something unspoken was being said here...was Charles aware he was different? The man was the most observant of the fools out here so...wouldn't be too much of a stretch.

But the Native American said nothing to confirm nor deny Arthur's thoughts, as he returned to quiet sentry duty.

~

"Alright boys!" Dutch van der Linde called, climbing up onto The Count, "Who fancies robbing us a train?"

There was a loud round of cheering as the men began mounting their horses.

Arthur, double checking with one hand the bridle was comfortable on his horse's face, looked up as John headed over to him fully armed. He felt himself being pulled towards John's body, remembering the feel of his muscles, his voice, his breath and the feel of him moving within- Arthur Morgan quickly necked down the last of his emergency dose with an grimaced "aaahh". Goddamn it, this was going to get real expensive, real fast. He shook the bitter droplets out onto the dirt and shoved the tin into his satchel, next to his faithful journal, making a mental note to return to Valentine and get more contraception. Arthur went to clip the bag shut-

"And just what in the hell do ya' think you're doin'?" Arthur asked, distracted by seeing the skinny cowboy marching up to him.

"I'm coming," John said staunchly, stomping over to Old Boy, who was hitched next to Arthur's beast.

"No," Arthur said bluntly, grabbing the horse's reins from John's hands, "no, you ain't."

"Why not?" the younger outlaw started, snatching them back, "I'm just as good a shot-"

"Marston, you got cattle to rustle," Arthur said, yanking the reigns back in a sharp tug, moving his large body to the side so Marston couldn't reach where he was tying them back to the hitching post, "Don't keep Uncle waiting."

For it had been decided that John and Uncle would rustle cattle while the majority took on the train job, leaving Pearson and Sadie to guard camp with the women and one blacked out Reverend. For Hosea was off in town for some reason or another with Tilly, it transpired.

It was unusual, as Dutch always preferred having his protege come along on large jobs to learn. But Abigail had gotten into his ear that John was having trouble walking and his head was a mess from the nightmares, so stealing a few cattle seemed like the least riskiest option to the Golden Boy. Plus, it had been Marston's original plan before the train job got Arthur's (accidental) swaying vote anyway, so Uncle had nominated himself to be his partner in crime.

Marston turned his head and saw Uncle passed out under a tree, bottle in hand.

John turned his eyes back as Arthur slotted a foot into a stirrup and swung a leg over the snorting stallion. He watched as Morgan settled into his saddle, before watching the other men mount up-

A few horses away, Micah was staring intently at Arthur's back.

Suddenly John grabbed the bridle on Arthur's horse, making the animal snort in a surprise at the sudden action.

"The hell you doin'?" Arthur barked.

Marston found his guts were screaming at him that this train job was wrong. 

Oh _so_ wrong.

"When are we gonna talk?" John blurted.

"Go on, get!" Arthur barked like Marston was an annoying filly, pulling his horse to turn.

John didn't let go and moved with the horse.

"Startin' to test ma patience real fast, Marston-"

"You keep callin' me 'Mac' in your sleep," John said all at once.

"Whut?"

"...you keep calling me 'Mac'...in ya' sleep," John added as more of a statement then accusation, pleased he now had Arthur's undivided attention, the stallion coming to a stop. Even if that glare of clear blue eyes made him want to run. Then feeling emboldened as someone called for Arthur from the throng of men and the man ignored them, John snarled a simple word, "...why?"

Arthur continued to stared down at him.

But John held his eyes, his own mouth curled in a sneer but it began to falter at Arthur's un-moving expression of stunned surprise.

Maybe he was expecting the brute to shout it wasn't true. To tell John to stop bullshitting, brushing it off or to flat out deny or question the accusation.

Instead Arthur Morgan did what Arthur Morgan did best.

He slammed the heel of his boot hard into John's chest, the younger man falling to the muddy ground on his back side with a whoosh of breath.

John blinked rapidly from his position on the floor as Arthur's horse reared up in a startled whinny and quickly moved away, ears flicking and eyes wide. He pursed his lips, fists clenched in dirt as he watched Arthur fight for control before his steed complied and rode away with Micah, Bill, Dutch, Lenny, and Javier. A thunder of hooves soon filled the air as the gang set off, disappearing out into the black forest. The dark haired man rubbed at his chest, feeling where Morgan had pressed his boot in. He hadn't been winded, but he gasped for air all the same. The sounds of the stampeding animals grew fainter and fainter until John Marston swore loudly, kicking into dirt as other camp members returned to their duties.

It was alright. He was worrying about nothing. If Micah wished ill on Arthur, which they all knew he did, and planned to act on it...he wouldn't do so on a job with so many witnesses. Especially not with Dutch present. Morgan was safe as long as Van der Linde was with him.

After a few moments of convincing himself Arthur would be alright, dangers of robbing a train aside, he began to gather his pride and bruised ego together, pushing himself up to standing when something caught his eye.

It was Arthur's journal.

Lying in the dirt.

Suddenly all thoughts of cattle rustling vanished from John's mind. He stared, frozen on the spot at the coveted possession as he heard a snore from across camp.

Uncle was still passed out with a bottle in his hand.

John Marston turned his attention back at the lost item.

Must have fallen out Morgan's bag when his horse reared up...

He knew he shouldn't do it. Knew Arthur would blow his top, especially after mentioning Mac. But fuck it, what did he have to lose at this point if Arthur wasn't going to face this 'thing' between them? Or tell him why he kept calling John another man's name in bed?

The cowboy waited till Arthur and the group were completely out of sight and struck. Thanking the fact Dutch had said he needed a full covered tent while he recovered from the wolf attack, John snatched the book from the floor and power walked over to his abode. He entered and pulled the front flap down with one hand angrily with a grunt, plunging him into darkness, save for a small light from a lamp in the corner. John marched over to his bed and landed his ass on it, the cot creaking as he did in the soft and wet earth. He scowled at the opposite side of the tent, rubbing his chest as Arthur's most private thoughts literally lay within his grasp.

John Marston suddenly hesitated.

What if he opened it and read something he didn't want too? Found out something about Arthur that the outlaw kept hidden? There was no going back and it wasn't like he could ask Morgan questions on anything he found.

But three thoughts suddenly muscled their way to the front of his mind in quick succession; what exactly was the beef between Mac Callandar and Arthur Morgan? Who had Arthur slept with for Dutch to mark the once golden boy if it wasn't Colm? And what if that moody bastard wrote about his feelings for a certain John Marston?

The twenty-six year old stared down at the worn book and flicked it open as the devil of curiosity took him.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Tags have been updated.
> 
> Science and Author Note: When Arthur is describing 'somemit' about a goddamn bird' is a reference to Candida Fungi aka 'Thrush'. While Thrush is not classed as an STI, I presumed Arthur would not have known this and lumped any ailments with such.
> 
> As I'm not a medical professional, the below link gives more information on the subject: https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/thrush-in-men-and-women/


	10. If It Ain't Written Down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The following chapter contains spoilers for Arthur's in-game history.

The gang moved quickly on horse back. Hooves thundering through the nighttime air, as the men of the Van der Linde Gang set out after their next score. Voices absent, waiting for their leader, riding out in front on a white Arabian, to start giving his verbal commands.

Train jobs, as far as scores went, were few and far between for Dutch's Boys. From the sheer risk, not to mention logistics of pulling one off, meant locomotion robberies were kept to a minimum. Stealing stages, pick pocketing, general hold ups and blackmailing other crooked folks were the bread and butter for the gang. But every now and again, the outlaw's fathers of Dutch and Hosea would decide that a train was, indeed, worth the risk.

If they could stop it.

Because a train in motion was near suicide. Risk of falling off, passengers jumping (with or without their precious money) and the driver being able to wire a distress call down the tracks giving law enough time to set up a response. Couple of gangs were all but destroyed when they ignored this fact and Hosea was hell bent on avoiding any train job that wasn't near enough locked down. A train pulled to a halt on some remote stretch of line, though? Now, that was doable. As with anything in their chaotic lives, time was _everything,_ Hosea would repeat until he was blue in the face, no matter how much Dutch salivated over a score. If they couldn't stop the train, then they couldn't stop the goddamn train.

But this job?

Hosea hadn't even been given the courtesy of a vote.

Which was why the old man had suddenly ridden off into town with Tilly.

Arthur had been aghast and would've marched right up to Matthews if he had known, demanding just what the hell Dutch thought he was playing at.

But there was no point.

Not even to insist to Dutch's face why his 'best friend' hadn't been consulted on robbing a train belonging to Leviticus fucking Cornwall.

It was as if Hosea's voice of reason was being replaced with a manipulative 'yes' man...

The speed at which Micah Bell was ascending the ranks was alarming, but no one apart from Dutch himself, could do anything about it. Each time Hosea or Arthur would present evidence that Micah was untrustworthy, Dutch would sternly vouch for the white hatted newcomer. Repeating, like a broken record, that it was all a front Micah put out. Bell was strong at heart, with a good head on his shoulders and besides, Dutch scoffed, didn't they have faith in _his_ judgement of character?

Arthur had snorted and made the mistake of saying Micah's 'good head' while 'putting out' must be one hell of a thing, then.

Morgan had been put on half rations for that remark.

It was also around this time that Pearson developed a peculiar habit of over filling Hosea's plate, with Mathew's commonly sighing he could never finish _this_ much stew. So Arthur hadn't gone without and smirked to himself when he saw the proud glint in both Pearson and Matthew's eyes.

But still, the gang's dynamic was changing.

Fast.

And it seemed Hosea was the first on Micah's radar to be put out to pasture.

Arthur sneezed in the cold air as they trotted further into the dark woods.

Bell had made a show of creepily over thanking the moody outlaw for giving him the swaying vote, back when Dutch had some sense left in him and, instead of out right electing Micah's job from the get go, had asked Arthur's opinion.

Just a shame Arthur Morgan had been too in his head about John Marston at the time, stupidly saying 'yes' on what ever it was that made the entire gang turn their gazes at him.

So it was with an undercurrent of great excitement and trepidation that the men urged their horses onward towards the target site.

Arthur grunted as his horse picked up speed to match the riders in front. The urge to turn around and gallop straight back into camp to start a fight with John seemed like a better idea and he nearly pulled back on the reigns to do so when the group turned a corner quickly.

The thirty-six year old outlaw felt a dull ache in his pelvis and cricked his neck to distract himself, blinking furiously through a dark scowl. He ignored Bill further up the formation asking Dutch sommit', with Micah's obnoxious voice answering.

How the hell...what the...Marston said he was calling him 'Mac' in his sleep?

Mac _goddamn_ Callandar?!

Arthur breathed heavily through his nostrils, as his horse continued to canter at the back of the formation, mind racing, heart thumping and rage welling.

Was it the once?

Every time they'd slept together?

In the cave?

In Marston's tent?

What had he said?

What _exactly_ had he mumbled into John's ear to do with that damn Scot?

Could be all manner of things...

Arthur swallowed, his throat dry.

The dark blonde cowboy knew how safely sleeping next to someone would loosen his treacherous tongue, but it was always incoherent mumbles and snippets of dreams, so it never occurred to him to worry too much. When drunk it had been sporadic insults and half sentences, nothing really to understand. Indeed, Mary had told him such as she giggled when ever he had over done himself on the liqueur, playfully quizzing him on what was making him grunt and sigh happily when he was spooning himself around her? As apposed to a long ago teenage Marston shoving him awake the last time they had been forced to share a cramped tent, before current events.

Arthur kicked his horse to go faster, pondering what John had seen during his night terror.

Morgan would say that since it all happened with Mac, he had not slept next to another.

But that had changed and Arthur's mind flew to the most damning things, bracing himself.

One of which is John might now know about Isaac.

Deep despair whispered from his core and Arthur Morgan instantly ran away from it. Forcing his eyes to stare deeply at the speckled colour of Taima's rump in front, at how the horse's leg's kicked up the ground; _anything_ to distract himself from his deceased son.

Well, whatever he had let slip, he would get the answers out of Marston one way or another. If only this train job would be done and over with. But Arthur slowly looked over his shoulder at the dark trail behind them with sad eyes. John was rightfully annoyed at being kicked in the chest and denied entry into this score. But... the look in his eyes right before the younger outlaw brought up Mac was... Arthur didn't know how to describe it, but Marston was in panic mode. Over what, Arthur wasn't sure. Probably the Mac thing but...

"You listening back there, Arthur?"

"Always, Dutch," he automatically replied, blinking furiously and forcing his head to turn in Van der Linde's direction.

"Then you'll know we're going to camp up by Granite Pass," Micah drawled with assumed authority from the top of Baylock, "Little waterfall there, train tracks across over the falls..."

Micah turned to smirk at Arthur.

"You'll love it, _sweetheart._ "

Arthur sneered under his breath.

Micah had started calling the taller outlaw that stolen pet name a while back, after clapping his intruding eyes on one of Mary Linton's love letters. Having just joined the gang, strutting into camp, side by side with Dutch, Micah had failed miserably at endearing himself to everyone. If by endearing one meant peering into everyone's business and trying to get a leg over anything that breathed.

Especially when it transpired their leader had met this one at a _bar._

Arthur remembered he had snorted to himself, in the middle of writing a journal entry, overhearing Miss Grimshaw telling Karen such. For Arthur knew why Dutch went to bars. It weren't much different to why _he_ went, once upon a time. Although, Arthur thought, turning his head to the side and spitting out bile onto grass as they rode in the pitch black, Dutch was much more discerning with his paramours and had never brought any of them back to camp.

Until Bell.

He knew resentment was festering something foul within Molly and quiet confusion in Hosea. But where as the old con man had accepted for years Dutch would have whimsical flings... the stupid girl was in love.

So typical of Dutch.

Wanting his cake and eating it.

Most of the women in camp, if not all, had been to Dutch's bed at least once. None by force, for all were skilfully charmed off their feet with words of beauty and poems of flattery.

Arthur smirked he had stolen some of Dutch's wooing techniques when he was first courting Mary because, _damn_ , did it work.

The only exception being Sadie, with possibly Tilly and Mary-Beth. Considering Morgan had literally stumbled into Dutch commencing his wooing of the surprised writer last week and Tilly had mysteriously said she didn't know how soft Dutch's bed sheets were. She had been invited too but had politely declined. For there was a red headed and young beauty, fresh from the green hills of Ireland, sitting right next to her, who would prefer such an offer. Molly was looking for adventure and could Dutch Van der Linde provide her with some?

So Arthur really wasn't that surprised, soon after finding out about Morgan's nether regions, when John literally asked if Dutch had ever fucked him. Arthur had laughed loudly in his southern drawl and said no. He was one of the few owners of a vagina that Dutch had not charmed into bed. Van der Linde liked shiny baubles and fresh young things... which he was _far_ from, even when they first met.

Arthur had hoped John didn't notice how awkwardly he had deflected the question on how much of himself he would give to their leader, if Dutch ever came knocking on his tent post.

Because Arthur knew the answer.

But Micah? He'd never bend over for that stuck up prick, Dutch or no Dutch. If he thought the Trapper was rough as hell, he hated to think what bedding Micah would be like.

Poor Jenny...

Arthur felt a sickening jolt in his throat, along side that raw vein of rage over Kirk. She didn't deserve any of that shit, from how they found her on the side of the road, to... to...

Arthur stared at the back of Micah's bobbing head, wanting to spit bile as the gang began a steep climb, confused beyond measure with what the hell Dutch saw in that slimy shit stain.

The Van der Linde Gang continued to ride north, heading past farmland and scrub, marching through forests in secret, to conceal their movements. Where as there was not so much presence of law here as back in Blackwater... Bounty Hunters, out for a score, were more likely to cross their path. Hours they continued steadily until the dull steel lines of the train tracks appeared and they all began to follow, one by one, in single file across the wooden beams.

Arthur Morgan swore at how close his cave was.

Of course the damn train job had to be up near Granite Pass.

Keeping an eye out for any approaching trains, behind the group of men, Arthur began to feel his eyelids growing heavy as their horses walked along at a steady pace, the day's exhausting work load setting in. Pretending that it had nothing to do with avoiding looking at the path to where he and John had slept together, his head lolled before he grunted himself awake in anger, snapping his head back up as the roar of the falls grew louder. He shut his eyes again, blocking out having to look at anything that might trigger John's voice to start knocking around in his skull.

He really didn't mean to _actually_ fall asleep...

Arthur's horse pricked it's ears up and nickered as the familiar trail to the cave appeared. It began to peel off calmly from the line, finding familiar foot falls to the cave-

"Where the hell you going, Morgan?!"

Arthur snorted himself awake from his accidental slumber at Bill's booming voice and blinked around him. Grey and cold walls greeted him and, for a split second, fully expected to see a naked John Marston with a fish on his head. Arthur quickly turned his blonde head left and right to get his bearings and saw with horror the group of men on horse back, standing in a line on the railway bridge below, staring up at him.

Arthur felt dread wash over him.

His horse was heading straight for the cave.

Arthur grunted loudly, pulling the reigns back and his horse stumbled on wet stone, confused as to why the path it had trodden so many times before was now wrong.

"Come on boah," Arthur mumbled softly to his steed, "not today."

His stallion turned in a circle with a snort, flank brushing the cold and damp cliff face as it began slowly descending back to join the waiting herd.

"You sure you're alright for this job, Arthur?"

"Yeah, Javier, just...," Arthur said as his horse carefully picked it's way back down the narrow trail to regroup, ".... 's been a long day."

"Claro," the man agreed and both guided their horses back onto the bridge as the formation continued on.

* * *

_I bought this new journal, after the last one got destroyed in that fire all those months ago, whenever that was._

John Marston held Arthur Morgan's leather bound journal carefully on his knees, reading the cursive and elegant handwriting slowly. First few pages where not what he was expecting at all; long hand mathematics. He examined closer, realising it wasn't just random numbers Arthur was calculating. It was the gang's financial health. Of how much they had saved, who and how much was being contributed as well as expenditure per month.

John blinked, completely stunned.

He didn't realise Arthur had _this_ much control over their money. Sure, he knew Arthur had the power to buy supplies and upgrades to their living situation but... John could have sworn it was Leopold Strauss who kept the books. But no... it was Arthur Morgan. Strauss brought added funds to the group in his own way, as they all did, but _Arthur_ kept the accounts. The brutish outlaw, who getting into shoot outs and being shitfaced was more his calling, was here... working out maths. 

And, from what little John could understand, Arthur was _good_.

"Shit," John said with a small laugh as he saw the initials of those who had contributed recently next to dollar signs.

What else about Morgan was he to learn?

He turned the page over, seeing more maths being worked out. Many equations greeted him, circled, scratched out or re-written next to them in a neater hand. There was a particularly long equation, which Morgan must have struggled with. For numbers were crossed out and black squares of pencil littered the pages.

John frowned.

Didn't Arthur have some gum to use as an eraser? He made a mental note and continued turning the pages, this time reading Arthur's account of their time up north in the Grizzlies before it all went to hell in Blackwater...

* * *

"Okay, gentlemen, this is it," Dutch announced, beginning his usual pre-job speech to the circle of gathered men on horse back.

But Arthur Morgan, who had heard twenty years worth of Van der Linde's brand of bluster, couldn't stop looking at the falls to their right.

"We get these Bonds and my life- I mean, _ours_ -," Dutch said with a chuckle, cold breath rising from his mouth, "will be a hell of a lot better than before."

Morgan watched the white lines of the falls cascade downwards. So much had happened, behind that curtain of water, that if he concentrated, it made his head spin.

_I meant it Arthur... I need you..._

Arthur's eyes softened.

_Then I'm just as 'bout a bigger fool as you._

"Train should be coming down from the north," Micah said, his trusty mount Baylock stepping a foot into the circle of gathered horses and men, "From what I hear, front is where the law will be. Place _we_ gotta be is the mail wagon. On the back. Cornwall ain't leaving his valuables in his fancy car no more... heh heh."

There was a chuckle around the group.

But Arthur didn't join in as he saw a little salmon appear up on the crest of the waterfall.

_Boah, there ain't nothin' will surprise me-!_

He watched as it desperately swam to not go backwards over the falls.

_Coz' I fell hard for you, ya' miserable bastard! THAT'S WHY!_

"Bill, Javier... you two will head out first, uncouple the car. Lenny and Charles, you deal with anyone coming up behind us. Micah and Arthur; you two head in and find what we came out here for."

"Wait," Arthur blurted, "We ain't stopping it first?"

"Faith, my dear boy," Dutch said with a smile, "We ain't robbing the entire thing, only the back."

"You heard the man...," Micah said loudly, then leaned over to Arthur with a whispered, ". _..Hosea_."

Arthur pulled his horse to move away, least his fist found Micah's face.

"Exactly," Dutch laughed, not hearing the slur, "Might be tempting, but in and out is how we do this one. Bonds only."

The men all agreed but Arthur Morgan kept silent. He watched as that poor salmon was hit by a freak wave and it went tumbling over the edge, vanishing in a desperate flap of fins into the white froth, plunging down to the rock's below.

"Everyone clear on the plan?" their leader asked.

_The only reason I'm bleeding is that I'm not foolish enough to get myself with child!_

The men nodded in union again with assured voices.

_Maybe if you did then we wouldn't be in this mess!_

Arthur breathed in sharply and leaned forwards in his saddle. Standing up in his stirrups ever so slightly, grunting low. Jesus, he ached. Why wouldn't that particular argument leave his head? Arthur gingerly lowered himself back down onto his saddle, the pain cresting and falling. He shifted, trying to get comfortable in the saddle, swearing he could still feel that idiot within. Arthur snorted. Did John even realize what he _meant_ by spouting that shit? Probably not, the bone idled idiot-

"Arthur, you listening back there?" Dutch demanded.

The outlaw paused as all eyes turned to stare and a righteous snort came from his left.

"What's the matter, Morgan? Saddle sores givin' you trouble?"

"Nah, only you given me that," Arthur said with a tired sneer at a chuckling Micah, now a couple of horses away.

"Okay, everyone move to their positions. We only get one chance at this," Dutch commanded to the group then added, with a turn of his dark eyes over to his most senior gun, "Don't mess it up."

Arthur sighed heavily, breaking eye contact.

He should never have slept with Marston.

* * *

_Abigail and Marston keep arguing. It's exhausting. I wonder why exactly he came back. He cannot seem to decide if he wants to be with his woman, us or not. Either way, he's keeping a fair distance from me, so I ain't complaining. Still can't remember what I did or said to drive him away._

John sucked in a breath but continued reading.

_I didn't greet him. Not at first. While folks was asking questions and Dutch was heaping praise, I stayed away. Least I beat the shit out of him for leaving_ _~~me~~ _ _us like that for so long. Hid away in my tent. Like a damn woman scorned. I ain't no woman. And I ain't scorned, I suppose. Don't know why it upset me so. Couldn't sleep that night. Too much goddamn water in my eyes._

John breathed out. He carefully re-read and saw the word 'me' crossed out, feeling his heart flutter.

Arthur Morgan; the notorious brute and butcher of the Dutch Van der Linde Gang, wanted for five thousand dollars in three different states, didn't cry.

That was what outsiders were lead to believe and John knew better.

When a beloved horse died, Arthur cried.

When laughing too loudly, and for too long, he cried.

Board out of his skull, a tear would be known to escape during a mid yawn and once even Pearson's overly spiced stew had water streaking down Morgan's cheeks.

Morgan was human, as was every single no good bastard of an outlaw, and could be hurt. After Arthur had gotten that chin scar, his eyes had been red rimmed. When Mary had broken his heart, he had grieved the relationship at the bottom of several bottles. Then returning to camp with Hosea, from his time away in Sisika Penitentiary, a thinner Arthur sported eyes that were heavily bagged and blood shot from sheer exhaustion.

What Arthur Morgan _didn't_ do was sob uncontrollably.

So it came as a complete shock when he had done so, not five years after his stint in Sisika.

John looked up from the journal in the dark tent, as the memory came to him.

The day had started out normal enough. Arthur completed his chores, with that familiar spring to his step, and ridden out. For the past four years he'd been having relations with a waitress, and would oddly be given a week or so away from camp (with Dutch's permission) to see this... _Eliza._

John felt the sting of jealousy rising each time Arthur packed up to head out, but kept himself in check. Because, his own confused feelings aside, he loved how happy this girl made the stupid lout.

For Arthur Morgan in a good mood was incredibly infectious.

Though John highly suspected this was just another Mary.

Where a desperate woman saw Arthur's strong bulk and good nature to be taken advantage of. But no matter how many times he'd mumble she was using his dumb ass, Arthur didn't want to hear it. Then when it came out that she had a young son, John had laughed that Arthur was a fucking idiot.

But, again, Arthur didn't listen and told him that the _very_ attractive new working girl Abigail Roberts, who had joined the gang recently, was head over heels for his greasy ass. So maybe he should mind his _own_ goddamn business.

However, something had happened because Morgan wasn't seen again for the following three and a half months.

A search party was sent out to find this woman, with Dutch in the lead, but they couldn't find her nor Arthur. Neither had the tall outlaw been arrested or kidnapped by a rival gang. Arthur had simply vanished, along with this waitress and her son. John continued the extended search, riding out to meet up with Trelawny, hunting for any word. The theory he had gotten out of the outlaw life was batted around but it didn't seem right. Not with Arthur. Even with a woman and kid in toe.

It was only when Hosea joined the hunt did the mystery of where the hell Arthur Morgan had gone became apparent.

"I found him!" Matthews had shouted, as he returned to camp with their missing brother. He explained quickly, to the assembled throng, that Arthur had met up with an old friend and they'd gotten into a heated disagreement. This in turn lead to Eliza and her child having to suddenly move away.

Which didn't _completely_ explain why a bloodied and beaten up Arthur had to arrive back into camp hogtied and strapped to the back of Silver Dollar.

Or why Hosea looked like he was about to commit murder.

John had rushed out, with Javier and Bill, to help Hosea bring Arthur down from the grey horse. But upon Bill cutting him loose, John had miss judged and buckled under the weight of the limp outlaw in his arms. Javier had quickly grabbed Arthur's other arm but the jolt of hitting the ground startled Arthur awake.

And Morgan broke.

Arthur sobbed, refusing to be moved from lying in a heap on the ground at Silver Dollar's feet, wailing about all manner of things that were too slurred to understand.

John couldn't do anything but stare.

Morgan, who'd recently turned thirty, was utterly inconsolable. He wouldn't stop sobbing into the dirt with broad shoulder's shaking in large guttural cries.

Hosea quickly shooed too curious faces away back to camp, ordering everyone to keep far away from Arthur.

Except John.

"Stay with him," a pale faced Hosea had ordered, grabbing a stunned Marston and yanking him towards the quivering mess, "I need to get Dutch."

John remembered nodding in a stunned silence as his adoptive father ran into camp, shouting for their leader.

Arthur's cries of distress were so disturbing, that John couldn't move. He watched Arthur's body shaking, dragging in air with thick fingers covered in blood digging into dirt matted blonde hair at his scalp, as if Morgan thought his skull was about to explode.

John to this day didn't know why he did it, but, he'd carefully dropped to his knees, almost touching Arthur's head. He'd reached both palms out and slowly placed them on the back of Arthur's battered knuckles. The older outlaw coughed wetness and, on a big inhale, had slowly rolled onto his back. John had retreated his hands to either side of Morgan's head as, chest heaving, the battered cowboy gazed up through tears at John's upside down face, framed by the bright milky way. 

"It's okay, Arthur," John had said nervously, mimicking how Morgan would calm him, "It's John... I'm here..."

Arthur had sobbed Marston's name out and reached up, gently pulling John's head down and wrapping his arms around the younger outlaw.

John tried not to slip at the odd direction Arthur was dragging him down, yet he had no choice but to follow. Pulled off balance, the side of his messy head of hair softly thumped onto Morgans' chest. He'd nearly been winded, as those strong arms wrapped themselves around his chest, squeezing back and sides. Arthur buried his face up into John's thread bare shirt, his wailing muffled, clinging to Marston like his life depended on it.

John wanted to yell for help, as he could literally feel the way Morgan's body shuddered against his own, Arthur's voice vibrating through his rib cage with every agonising cry. But he could do nothing except wait. Bent over at this awkward angle, hands on the ground either side of Arthur, hoping Morgan hadn't bruised any of his ribs. He let his head rest again on Arthur's now quieting chest, hearing how Morgan's heart beat began to calm and had tried to gently prize the elder outlaw's arms off.

But Arthur wouldn't let him go.

John wasn't sure how much time had passed, but Dutch soon relieved Arthur's vice hold on him with worried words of concern, face equally as pale. John watched as Dutch and Miss Grimshaw helped the limp Arthur back to his tent before the twenty-year old scurried back to the camp fire, his front drenched in tears, having no idea what the hell was going on.

It was never publicly explained just what had happened to warrant the embarrassing scene in which Arthur had returned to camp, but the gang was glad that it had it's strong arm back. Of course Bill had loose lips, spouting all sorts of ridiculous theories that Arthur had gotten into a fight with the real father of the boy, as Arthur lay recovering in a closed off tent. But aside from the yarn he'd told them, Hosea had kept silent on the matter.

All anyone knew was Arthur Morgan was single again.

John frowned as he stared at a sketch of a deer.

Arthur had shaken his head when the subject had been brought up a while later. Sitting alone by the scout camp fire with his journal, Morgan muttered "bad business" in a broken whisper and John left it at that.

But what ever had _really_ happened... it took a year and a half for Dutch to start trusting him again.

It was unnerving, this change in Morgan. As Arthur, the crazy strong arm and silly fool, who wanted to help folk as much as shoot 'em, would have such sadness in his eyes, when he thought no one was looking, that John didn't know where to begin making sense of it or offering help. Morgan had failed relationships in the past, but it was as if Arthur's world had collapsed. Going off into his head. Staring off across the horizon at only something he could see, or fire watching with blue iris's glassed over, taking his name being called twice to get a reaction.

John looked down at the journal.

An impulsive and selfish want to know the truth, called from his core. Arthur had such sadness about him that John had wished to help, if only Morgan would tell him.

But Arthur never did.

John breathed in and turned another page, ignoring how he hated himself...

* * *

Arthur Morgan stood in the freezing cold, stewing in his own foul mood, wishing he could hit a smoke. Anything to settle his slowly fraying nerves. Twas stupid, he grumbled, stubbing at hard grass with a boot. He'd done train jobs before. By comparison, this should be easy. Weren't a train full of innocent folk. Just one car. Be over before he knew it. Sure there was law, or more like Cornwall's private army, but _he_ wasn't dealing with them.

Just a classic smash and grab job.

With Micah Bell as his wing man.

Arthur closed his eyes with a growl.

He'd kill for that nicotine fix right about now.

Dutch had banned cigarettes or anything that could be seen in the darkness. Didn't want to carelessly give away their location or the element of surprise with a stray glimmer of light. So Arthur popped some chewing cocaine into his mouth and ground out his frustrations upon it. It wasn't long until the gum's effects hit him. But if anything, it made his nerves even _worse_.

The burly outlaw shoved his gloved hands into the arm pits of his blue coat, feeling his heart starting to thump harder. He cast his gaze around at the huddled men, keeping close to the steaming body heat of their horses.

But for Arthur Morgan, who's eyes kept treacherously finding the waterfall, the cave and it's memories behind it, wished for this soddin' train to hurry the hell up before he lost his goddamn mind.

But the train was late.

Apparently.

"You sure this is the right place, Micah?" Dutch asked, stepping onto the tracks and staring down its length.

"Yes, boss," Micah smiled, before snorting in a breath, "Fella I got this information from, he don't like Cornwall one bit. We're doing him a favour, robbin' this train, you might say."

"Can't believe we've been here for two hours," Bill interrupted, huddled in on himself, "Can't feel ma' nuts no more."

"I second that," Javier grumbled, shivering under his poncho, before Charles began handing out clumps of long dried grass.

"Put this in your coats," the native american said in a deep rumble, "will trap the heat."

"How trust worthy is this fella, Dutch?" Arthur asked, pointedly ignoring Micah, over at their leader peering down the tracks. He took a fist full of straw and shoved it into his blue coat, as the other men did, "Said it were comin past at midnight-"

"It will be _fine_ , gentlemen," Micah said with clear annoyance at being undermined, "All's we gotta do is wait some more-"

"You kiddin', me?" Arthur blurted without thinking, hating how Micah kept fucking answering for Dutch, "We got lawmen in three different states after us. They chased us from the West, they chased us over the mountains-"

Micah let out a dramatic snore.

"What makes ya' think this thing ain't gonna be armed to the goddamn teeth, and we be out here like fools waitin' to get shot like some damn ducks-"

"Don't you ever get board of belly-aching, Morgan?"

"Micah, I swear-"

"Or what?" Bell snarked, "You scared them Bounty Hunters with their _dogs_ are gonna leap off the train and accuse you of unnatural acts, hmm?"

Arthur spat the spent cocaine gum out to the side and fully rounded on Micah.

* * *

Pages and pages John continued to devour, searching for answers, but there was nothing.

He coughed and evaluated all that he had read so far...

Arthur wrote mainly about observing the world around him and, from the sounds of it, trying to make sense of it all. The day to day running's of their hectic lives, finding order in chaos and how many people Arthur was _helping_ , outside of the gang, was a pleasant surprise. But what began to strike John the most was how confused Arthur seemed. Under the facade of bark and bulk, how unsure the elder outlaw was of everything.

Including himself.

John had tried to find written evidence if this was tied to anything particular, such as how he was different from other men, but Arthur hardly touched on the subject. No, it was on how the world around them was changing, how civilisation was creeping into their lives and what to do to make the family safe from it all.

And Morgan was struggling on how to protect everyone.

Marston was also intrigued to learn that Arthur, once upon a time, had considered asking Abigail to marry him, if Marston wouldn't. And that, even though Arthur cared for Dutch in his own words, it was _Hosea_ who he loved the most. John wasn't surprised, for the old con man was calm even in the face of danger, such was his skill at acting, for he could calm Morgan down easily-

There was a hacking cough as the very figure of Matthews walked passed his tent.

Feeling exposed, John froze, eyes visually checking his tent was closed. He listened for any more activity but only heard Uncle snoring and Karen laughing with the other women.

Abigail...

He did like her, John would argue. Loved her, he'd might say. Even if he didn't see himself as her husband anytime soon, regardless of what she thought. Marston swallowed the guilt that he had shouted at her, when she was only trying to help. She deserved better. Someone like Arthur. Who didn't scowl or treat her the way he did. What she saw in his skinny ass was beyond him. Morgan was right though, Roberts was incredibly attractive. He'd be a fool not to officially announce they were a couple. But it irked the young cowboy to no end that the gang had presumed as such. Just because they were good friends who happened to enjoy sleeping with each other.

Was that what his and Arthur's relationship was too?

But... with Arthur it felt more intense, yet safe, for lack of a better description-

There was a laugh that sounded suspiciously like Jackson and Matthews.

John shuffled on his cot, rubbing at his chest.

How much time had passed? Hosea was back with Tilly already?

Breathing a nervous sigh, John Marston returned his attention down to the stolen journal and read faster...

* * *

"If you don't shut your trap, Bell," Arthur's voice turned into a deadly rumble, "I _will_ shut it for you."

"Oh, so you're telling _me_ to be quiet now?"

"You bet-"

"Funny," Micah glared, "Seeing as you kept all of us awake last night. Helping Marston with his nightmares? How _precious_ -"

"Ya' talkin' horse shit, you know that?" Arthur shot back, "The storm was too goddamn loud to hear anything! Unless you was stalking round his tent. You know," he added with a misty breath, stepping closer to Bell, "I've _never_ even seen you sleep-"

"Oh, don't get so defensive, Morgan," Micah grinned, "It's unbecoming. Fact you didn't realise how loud you were just shows you ain't _aware_ what's going on in this here gang-"

"And how the hell would you know?!" Arthur spat, fists clenched with a heart thumping like it was going to burst out of his chest at any given moment, "You've only been with us for six months, and most of that time we've have Bounty Hunters and Pinkertons on our tail. I'm willing to bet that hasn't _all_ been coincidence-"

"As apposed to you?" Micah challenged, "Bringing in the deer whenever you feel like it, mooching around camp like a whipped dog what seems like every month and complaining like a goddamn woman?"

"He's got a point there, Arthur."

"Shut up, Bill," Arthur said and turned his attention back to Bell.

"From what I've seen," Micah stared with wide eyes, "you's not out here, working like the rest of us. Having faith in Dutch's plan, even when it don't suit us. Ain't you thought of that?"

It was when the very man appeared and Arthur tried a new tactic.

"You really wanna keep this clown around, Dutch?" Arthur shouted in a loud voice, pointing a finger at Bell, wishing he could smash his knuckles into the blonde's jaw instead, "Coz he's riling me up somethin' _real_ bad-"

"Both of you, enough," a frustrated Dutch called, stepping over the tracks and returning to the group of men, "You two fools arguing, when you're both meant to be on the look out for this train? Quietly?"

But Bell grinned.

"Sorry boss, I forgot," Micah mocked, turning to Dutch and thumbing over to Arthur, "It's just old sour faced Morgan's been too busy. What with John's dick up his ass-!"

**WHAM!**

* * *

_Met this fella called Micah Bell today. Dutch seems almost taken aback with him as much as I am. Although not on the same reasons. Real ugly son of a bitch._

John laughed to himself as he read, seeing an unflattering portrait of Bell next to Arthur's elegant handwriting. John had seen the sketches Arthur had made of most of camp. And the ones of John Marston. Eating, smiling, sitting, laughing etc, and all had been beautifully detailed and _very_ numerous. Which stroked John's ego immeasurably. But it was soon dampened by the knowledge that the predatory Micah was on a job with him.

No, he reminded himself.

It will be fine.

Dutch, not to mention the other gang members, were with them. Micah wasn't going to do anything in full view, and besides, Arthur could look after himself.

Pushing the persistent worry to one side, John flicked to the most recent entries, seeing the unmistakable name of Blackwater.

_As luck would have it, my body seems fit to have started again._ _Am glad Hosea and I got to working that scam in town. Don't think I'd be much use on Micah's ferry job._

John flicked the page over, skimming Arthur's confused account of what went down on the boat and their run into the mountains.

_Idiot took offence that I got a cabin to myself when we got to Colter. Got some real belly ache that day but were glad too much was going on to really get me. Miss Grimshaw saw how I was, she always does. Remind yourself to thank her for giving you some privacy away from the other men._

More pages were scanned.

_Found John near dead today, stupid bastard. Wolves got him but we got him too. Reverend and I tended to his wounds and I stitched that mug of his back up. As much as I needle him, I felt real scared_ _~~that I~~ _ _we were gonna lose him. He don't know it but I slept next to him those first few nights. Wouldn't put it past Marston to kick the bucket just to piss me off. Kinda liked having him in my arms, though, keeping him warm. Feel real safe when he's nearby. For some dumb ass reason._

John smiled softly.

_Abigail was in a state because the greasy fool couldn't eat. So I did my best. Gave him mouth to mouth. Can't believe I did, but it worked and the boy won't starve just yet. Not sure what his woman would say if she knew it made something in me real excited. Feeling John's lips against my own. I'm such a damn fool and I fear I will be a fool still to come._

John turned the page, his cheeks growing hotter.

_Arrived in a place called Horse Shoe Overlook. It's pretty enough. Folks are glad to be out of the cold and there's a real nice feeling to the place. But I got the_ _ itch _ _today, so kept to myself. Went out exploring the woods and didn't do nothin' with nobody except become real acquainted with my fingers again._

John frowned.

_Best lovers I'll ever get._

The itch? Best lovers? The hell was that?

He continued to the next page and saw one lone entry underlined.

_I can not get kissing Marston _ _out_ _my head._

John sat up and hunched further into reading. Arthur was thinking of him during.... what exactly?

Wait... was... was Arthur... masturbating?

To _him?_

John re-read and, with heart firmly in throat, eagerly read how Arthur was getting himself off. Or rather how _frequently_ he did. For on the subject of how, only a few lines gave any evidence. But the man had drawn hash marks on certain pages, next to dates, every time he did. Marston turned the page, feeling blood pooling in his groin at the image of Arthur self pleasuring, until a group of numbers a few pages down were circled with a giant 'X'.

The hash marks spoke for themselves, but the 'X'...?

"The hell you trying to calculate, Morgan...?" John said as he squinted, eyes darting around the pages of sketched horses, people, buildings and flowers, hunting for the little marks. He turned chunks of the journal back and forth, comparing dates, searching for the hash marks and 'X' that seemed to be monthly. What was he-

John blinked.

Arthur was calculating his bleed.

The twenty-six year old outlaw flicked the course paper back, reading a few passages on the subject (mostly of Morgan complaining) and saw how methodical Arthur was at keeping a monthly record. John Marston scratched his head, hunching himself over further, journal on thighs. A page he had turned to had a giant question mark next to the 'X'. John looked up and read that day's entry, for there were no hash marks.

_Got black out drunk again. Knew I shouldn't have for I messed my timing up real bad. Not that I'm in the business to worry any more. Unless I get real unlucky._

John looked up at the tent fabric from across him...

Arthur and Lenny had gone out and had a crazy night at Dutch's orders to calm Summers down from Micah's shit. Was described as a 'quiet time' by Arthur, but it was anything but, to say the least. Lenny not being mentally with it for most of the day after and Arthur sleeping it off in his cot, snoring like a freight train.

_Had a quiet drink the other night, for as much as I'm known to do so. Ended up fighting some of the towns folk, but the kid dragged my ass away and we laughed ourselves into pig shit. Went back to drinking but then the boy got arrested. I tripped on a damn fence, trying to get away from the law... or I woke up in a forest and threw up. Come to think of it, I think that was the time before... can't really remember..._

John scoffed.

Arthur had gotten older in the time he'd known him, but perhaps not wiser.

_Lenny and I had a grand time. Aside from the fact I went to piss in the street, forgetting myself. But the law showed up before poor Lenny got_ _ that _ _particular shock. Never thought I'd be grateful for the sheriff's men to show up when they did._

John coughed and went to get a better grip of the journal but it slipped out of his sweaty hands. It fell, but he caught an edge, pages at the back jutting out and cascading to the tent floor. Marston cursed and leaned down, picking the stray entries up, brushing dirt off.

He couldn't help but cast his eyes at them.

They had seen better days and the handwriting, while clearly still Arthur's, was slightly off.

Wait... were these pages from _old_ journals?

He knew Arthur had lost one in a fire months ago but Morgan had kept one ever since returning from his blow up with Mac.

John's eyes drifted down and there was a _shit_ ton of text.

He paused, looking away. Arthur had been a loose cannon back then. Before he went for Mac. Before Sisika Penitentiary...did...did he really want to know that Arthur? He had a knowledge, sure but...this was _that_ Arthur's private thoughts.

It wasn't the Arthur of now.

John begrudgingly returned the yellow papers to the back of the book-

_It's hard to say what Mac and I is or ain't._

John's eyes snagged on the sentence and felt his heart leap into his mouth.

Just one page, he argued with himself.

To satisfy his curiosity.

That's all.

Then he'd shut the damn thing completely and put it back on the floor where it fell.

What harm could a couple more pages do?

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Finally worked out how to set page breaks...
> 
> Spent time re-reading Arthur's journal in-game and adding bits and pieces of it into this chapter. Forgot how much we learn about him from this simple game mechanic...
> 
> Cannon Note: Over heard Micah telling Arthur to stop complaining like a woman during a mission, then calling him 'Sweetheart' later on. So into the fic cannon that vocab goes! Also, I've not come across this myself, but apparently if Arthur reaches max bonding with a horse and it dies, he will cry while picking up the saddle.


End file.
